


When We Are On Our Knees

by WeWillForeverBeYoung



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcoholic John, Coming Out, Cussing, Dead Mary, Depressed John, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drunk John, Enabling, Implied Past Mary/John, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Infant Death, John is a Bit Not Good, John-centric, M/M, PTSD John, Past Relationship(s), Post-Season/Series 03, Sherlock is Supportive, Slow Romance, Worried Sherlock, talk therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-24 20:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 57,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4933648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeWillForeverBeYoung/pseuds/WeWillForeverBeYoung
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is struggling with his wife's death and trying to adjust to life back at 221B, and he resorts to the unthinkable: alcohol. It's up to Sherlock to guide John through these dark times and help John get back on his feet. </p><p>Rated for alcohol abuse and some mature themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Peace Does Not Come

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for deciding to read this work. Some of you may have read my other piece, "I Am A Beast," but these two stories are in no way related. I just wanted to pursue an angst-guided story with John as the main subject of the whump. And I wanted to do it in third-person. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.

It started with a dream, though it was more akin to something of a devil-manufactured nightmare- a hellish manifestation of memories too potent to be forgotten during the peaceful hours he as a human being was allowed.

He had found himself thousands of kilometers away from his warm bed, away from the uncanny comforts of 221B. The protective shell of the bedclothes had been replaced with the sweltering heat of the sun. The violin music, so soft and somber, had been abandoned by his mind for the cacophonous symphony of rapid gunfire and shouts. The wallpapered, plaster walls no longer shielded him from the elements (both of nature and of human error); he was now out in the open and one with the sand.

His training kicked in, and he looked around for any of the wounded, for he was not aware that he dreaming. A fellow comrade-in-arms fell to the ground beside him with a small cry- a man whom he had not been aware was that close to him. Immediately, he was on the ground beside the wounded soldier, just in time before being grazed by a bullet himself.

The bullet had entered the soldier’s torso, and a pool of red was quickly collecting on the man’s uniform, bits of broken flesh mixing with battle-torn fabric. Amidst the explosions, gunfire, and orders echoing through the night, he could hear the wounded man’s cries. The sight, however gruesome and testing it may have been, was common in Afghanistan and was nothing compared to what he had encountered in the medical tents.

However, despite his stability in the eyes of many a storm, he simply hovered over the man in a state of absolute shock, growing deaf and blind to all other sights and sounds except for those emitted from the wounded man. For the wounded man bore the same face as John’s.

~

He became aware that he was still in his bedroom as soon as he jolted awake, and though John was still quite shaken, he was glad that his flashback did not continue to play before his eyes in his waking moments. With ragged breath, he looked around his bedroom only to discover that his door had been flung open, the lamp turned on, and the sheets detangled from around his form. And the same person who had caused those minor phenomena was sitting beside him on his bed and was gently holding him against the mattress.

“Sh-Sherlock,” John croaked. A small bead of sweat began to make its way down his face.

Sherlock let John go. “I heard you screaming, so I decided to… intervene.”

John sat up and wiped his already dampened tee on his brow. “Thank you,” he replied, not knowing what else to say yet absolutely positive that Sherlock would pick up on that fact.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asked, who seemed to feel very out-of-place and tense himself.

“Oh yes,” John replied. “Did I- did I wake you?”

“No, I was just in the kitchen rotating the kidneys.”

“Right… Of course.”

Sherlock sat still for a moment before getting up from the bed. “Are you sure you’re alright? You look pale."

“I can handle it, thank you.”

Sherlock stood there, watching for any signs of contradiction. John was sure he was giving himself away, but Sherlock did not comment on it.

“Try not to get yourself all sweaty again. You smell horrendous.”

 John managed to smile at that. “I’ll take that into consideration next time.”

“Alert me if anything else occurs,” Sherlock said.

“Aren’t you supposed to know if it does before I do?” he murmured.

Sherlock smirked and turned to leave with a “Goodnight”, deciding it was best if he resumed his experiment. As soon as the door shut behind Sherlock, John discovered just how sticky he was and promptly got up from his bed as well. He threw open the top drawer in his dresser and grabbed the first t-shirt he could find in the mess of tees, socks, and pants.

It was not long before the wet, grey shirt was thrown against the dresser, merely discarded and out-of-mind until the morning. John quickly put the fresh, new one on and instantly felt slightly more comfortable, and with this new-found sense of cleanliness, he shut off the light, climbed back on top of his bed, and buried himself beneath the duvet.

He laid there on his side for a few moments while trying to manually slow his breathing and heat rate into a pace that was optimum for sleeping, but no matter how many times in inhaled and exhaled in three-second intervals, no matter the number of sheep he managed to bother counting, his eyelids refused to droop, and his body was very much alert.

 John turned over and faced the opposite wall. He could have sworn he heard Sherlock shut the door to his own bedroom.

_Good,_ he thought. _He hasn’t slept since… when? Sunday?_

The thought of Sherlock being so close to him and so readily available seemed to ease the nerves left-over from his nightmare, and a small, sad smile subconsciously formed on his lips when he remembered being awoken to Sherlock’s electrifyingly cool, blue eyes. There was something in their hue that gave John the chills and also brought into a calmer state of mind. John wondered if Sherlock would take the time to play him a lullaby if he called down and asked for it. But he sighed and dismissed it; there was no way that those sonatas Sherlock played early in the morning could have been for him. He had been told many times that the violin music was intended to help Sherlock think.

John rolled over onto his back and let out a huff of frustration. He rubbed his hands over his face and thought about all of the things he was going to have to face at the surgery when his shift began later in the morning. Two doctors were on vacation, and one was on maternity leave. Flu season had also just began, and if the season from the year before was any gage on what was going to happen during this one, then he was going to be faced with hundreds of patients who were essentially going to be told to go home and wait out their viral ailments as well as those who were already scheduled to visit for other reasons. If the weatherman was right, then the rain that had been pelting London for the past few days was going to continue, and John was going to have to make his way into a more crowded tube than normal once more.

Sherlock had just solved a case, and the “Fluid Filtering Post-Mortem” experiment that he had planned for weeks was finally underway (all thanks to Molly, who finally secured a pair of kidneys for Sherlock to work with). It was likely that Sherlock, for a change, was going to be the least of his annoyances. He was likely to spend the following day recuperating (although he did not need much) and bent over his chemistry set. If he was going to acknowledge John at all, it was going to be about-

He pinched the bridge of his nose. _Right- the blog. I have to type up something on the previous case. Oh well. The readers can wait. Besides I’ve never been behind on my updates before, and I’ve always been good about putting out new posts up to a week after the case is solved. I have time._

~

After an additional thirty minutes of staring at the walls, the clock, and the ceiling, John had begun to feel a little tired, though he still could not find sleep. His agitation had steadily increased to the point where every toss made the bed bounce against the walls and every pound on his pillow echo. John was ready to just let his exhaustion and foul mood take over and just wait in anger until it was time for his morning shower.

It was then that he remembered what he had hidden beneath his tees, socks, and pants.

His normal self would have debated the idea of going and getting it, and his normal self would have likely decided against it. But he was exhausted, and going to Sherlock was out of the question now, for John could hear his snores and did not want to wake him.

So John got up, walked over to his dresser, and opened the top drawer. He heard the metal clink against the wood, and he began to search through the pairs of socks to find it. His fingers closed around the cool glass, and with a smile on his face, John pulled the airplane-sized vodka bottle out from beneath the layer of socks.

_This should do it._ John unscrewed the top and sniffed the strong contents of the bottle. _This is why I got this bottle. For nights like this._

John downed the entire contents of the small bottle in about one-and-a-half gulps. It burned as it went down his esophagus, and he subsequently coughed in order to try to get that sensation to go away, since he had grown accustomed to the lesser and more common of alcoholic drinks, like beer, for instance. But as soon as the warm, fuzzy feeling developed in his gut, he knew he had drunk the right amount in order to induce sleep. All of his anger had seemingly dissolved with only a few fluid ounces. And he was feeling a little light-headed, which made him want to lie down in his bed even more.

Thankful for the quick release, John returned to his bed, covered himself in the duvet, and allowed the grogginess in his head to overtake him.

~

_Finally._ He shut down his laptop having finished the report on his last patient. _Lunch break._

He took off his stethoscope and set it aside. While he was stretching his back, a knock came on the door.

“Come in,” he called, dropping his shoulders.

Sarah walked into the examination room. “Care if I joined you for lunch?”

“Oh, of course not! I was- uh, just closing everything up for a while.”

She laughed softly in a way that a person only does when they want to lighten the mood and show understanding at the same time. “Fred comes back in two days.”

“Well, I can see why Fred wanted to visit Aruba so badly,” John said, cracking a smile while eliciting a more genuine, hearty laugh from Sarah.

She leaned against the door frame. “It’s been a while since we’ve formally talked.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it has. Well, with everything that’s been going on, that’s understandable.”

“Right.” Sarah looked down at the cheap white and green tiles before looking back up at John. “Listen, I still would like to view us as friends.”

John perked up at this statement. _What could she be on about?_

“I didn’t know if maybe you wanted to go out for drinks with me and Brad. You know, just to catch up and have some fun.”

_Oh._ “Um, sure. I’d like to.”

She smiled. “Maybe you could even convince Sherlock to come along.”

He smirked. “Even if I could, do you really want a repeat of last time?”

“To be honest, that was one of the best first dates I think I’ve ever had. Brad has reason to be jealous of you, thanks to Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, a great many people have a lot to thank Sherlock Holmes for,” John said beneath his breath.

“Did you move back in with him?” she asked softly with an edge of sympathy.

“Yes. Yes I did. I didn’t really think about going anywhere else to be honest.”

“Listen John, I know you’ve already heard this a thousand times, but-“

He sighed. “It’s fine. I’ve moved on. I’m just… I’m just taking things one day at a time.”

She nodded while biting her bottom lip. “Brad and I are free every night this week. Whenever you want to go out, you can always give us a call.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Well, how about going and getting some lunch?” Sarah asked as she smoothed out the front of her cardigan.

“Great. I’m starving.”

~

John stumbled up the seventeen steps to the flat. His late-night predictions were correct: he had been utterly swamped at the surgery, and the tube ride had been far from pleasant, much less spacious. He was at least lucky that the placebo effect his morning coffee had on his body killed the minor buzz he had sustained.

Sherlock was curled up on the couch eating take-out when John walked into the sitting room. At first glance, John thought nothing of it. But, as he removed his bomber jacket, he remembered that they had eaten take-out the previous evening in celebration of another solved case, and they had not sustained any leftovers.

“Did you order more Chinese food?” John asked a little too confrontationally, turning to face his flat-mate as he did so.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said between bites. “I saved some for you.”

“But we had plenty of stuff in the fridge,” John protested.

Sherlock’s chopsticks scraped against the bottom of the white take-out box. “Nothing that you would deem edible.”

John walked over to the fridge and opened it. Sure enough, Sherlock was right. There was nothing in the fridge besides random condiments, jam, an almost-empty carton of milk, a few containers of leftovers from meals from the previous week, and the kidneys.

“Alright, I’ll head to Tesco’s,” John announced, shutting the fridge.

“You don’t have to go right now,” Sherlock said as John put his bomber jacket back on.

“Yes, I do. I have to beat the evening traffic, since you didn’t think to go out and get the groceries while I was at work.” John then left the sitting room, leaving Sherlock in his wake.

~

_"Item not recognized.”_

John huffed and ran the box of biscuits over the scanner again. The chip and pin machine recognized the bar code, and the price listed on the machine’s screen went up a couple of pounds, and the box was listed along with all of the other items he had managed to scan.

_Thank God._ That box had been the third item that he had had to re-scan.

_"Item not in bagging area. Do you want to bag this item?”_

John took the box of biscuits out of the plastic bag that he had placed it in and then threw it down again with more force. The machine felt the force of the impact, and the screen went back to counting his current total.

“Every time I come here,” John muttered, grabbing the milk out of his basket.

~

“Sherlock! Sherlock! Ugh, where’s the git when you need him…”

John rested the bags on the top stairs while he tried to regain enough focus to make it up the remaining steps. After receiving aid from a sales assistant, he had managed to pay for all of the food they needed. They walk home was not too bad, since the rain had ceased. But the autumn breeze still remained, and his shoulder never reacted well to the season changes. The dull pain in his shoulder that had developed that evening would swell up every time the breeze decided to sweep across the pavement.

He took a deep breath and made his way up the three stairs that stood between him and the flat.

“Sherlock!” he called again. The door to the flat was open, which was not particularly new, but it still made John a little curious.

“Sherlock?”

He rounded the corner and found Sherlock sitting at the island while staring into his microscope. The detective seemed absorbed in his observations (as always) and was completely oblivious to John’s entrance. Either that, or he didn’t care. But John was not about to waste time finding out which possible scenario lead to him being charged with the task of putting all of the groceries away himself. He simply set the bags on the counter space beside the sink and set about putting all of the food he had purchased into their rightful places in the kitchen.

John opened one of the cabinets to put the biscuits away when he discovered that there was already another box of the same biscuits sitting on one of the shelves, unopened. Mentally chastising himself for not checking the cabinets as well before he left for Tesco’s, John put all of the other food items away and set about heating himself up a plate of Chinese take-out. Sherlock eventually got up from his place at the island and went to his bedroom with a look of determination across his face.

“Oh, you know I wasn’t doing anything,” John whispered once Sherlock was out-of-sight. “I’m not doing anything that would keep this flat up and running. Go ahead, do whatever you want. “

He opened the microwave right before the timer stopped. While his meal cooled on the stove top, he pulled out his phone and texted Sarah.

_Hey, would you mind going out tonight? A little bit later, I mean. Could really use some leisure time._

His mobile soon buzzed with a reply: Sure. _Brad just walked in. I’ll let him know. How about we meet up at my place?_

John smiled in relief and began typing a response. _Great I’ll be there in an hour or so._

He set his phone down on the counter, picked up his fork, and began to eat. After a few bites, he wished he had taken Sherlock's advice and had eaten prior to going to Tesco's. The microwave did not compliment the take-out at all.

Sherlock soon emerged from his bedroom. "Oh, John. Didn't see you come in. had a bit of a row with the chip and pin machine again, did you?"

"No more than usual," John replied while stabbing a piece of orange chicken. 


	2. When We Feel Sorry For Ourselves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was able to get another chapter out today, since I had some extra time to work. I will not be able to update everyday, and this may very well be the last update for this week. 
> 
> I do not own BBC Sherlock. Or Arsenal. Or Word.

Sarah had decided to take John and Brad, her fiancé, to the closest pub to her flat, The Spilled Inkwell. It was a quiet, quaint little place tucked in a niche between a bookshop and a row of flats. The bar tender, when he was not pouring drinks for the few customers that were there, occupied his time by cleaning glasses. The other patrons, besides John, Brad, and Sarah occupied the booths, while they decided to take their places at the bar itself. The television hanging in the corner was playing a recap of a football match that John believed had occurred earlier that day. All in all, John thought that Sarah had chosen the right place.

They each paid for a pint of beer, and when everyone received their glasses, they all raised their drinks in a toast merely for the sake of the social gesture and to nothing in particular. After they had taken the first few swigs from their glasses, they engaged in meaningless, friendly conversation: Brad talked about the project he was working on at his architectural firm, Sarah lamented about how she hadn’t planned on making today a cheat day on her wedding dress diet (and Brad jokingly told her she could risk eating something on more than one day of the week), and John griped about the chip and pin machine at Tesco’s, which earned him laughs from the engaged couple.

“I mean, they’re supposed to make things easier, right?” John said while Brad and Sarah were giggling. John beamed at the response he was getting from them.

Once she had calmed down, Sarah took another sip from her beer and announced that she was going to use the lady’s room, taking her clutch with her.

“You’re a hell of a bloke to drink with, John,” Brad said when Sarah left.

“I’ve been told that before,” John replied. “But you should try holding your liquor with my flat mate.”

“Oh, that’s right. You live with that detective guy- Holmes, isn’t it?”

John nodded. “Yep. That’s him.”

The announcer on the football matched screamed as one of the players scored a goal, causing both Brad and John to look in that direction.

“That’s the only goal Arsenal scored that entire match,” Brad muttered before turning back to face to the bar.

“I haven’t followed football that much since my college days.” John shrugged. “I was more of a rugby player and enthusiast anyway.”

“You played rugby? So did I.”

John put down his glass, causing it to make a dull _clink_ against the wooden finish. “Really? You don’t show it.”

“I don’t show it?” Brad then tilted his head to the side in realization. “Oh, I get it. You can use those deductive powers like your flat mate can.”

“Well, I’ve picked up on a few things, but I’m nowhere the level of deductive reasoning that he’s at.”

“I read your blog. Me and Sarah both. She showed me the post you did on the Chinese smuggler gang.”

John felt his face light up once more with excitement. He absolutely loved it when he met readers in real life. “You read my blog?”

“A lot of people do, mate,” Brad replied. “Say, are you planning on keeping the thing going?”

John remembered the case that Sherlock has just solved, and that he had actually been mentally planning an outline for the potential post on the subject, if he could actually manage to write it.

“I don’t know yet,” John answered.

“That’s fine.” And John didn’t need Sherlock’s intellect to know that Brad was only saying that because he had no better way to respond and did not want to stop the conversation at that.

It was then that Sarah emerged from the bathroom and rejoined the boys.

“What did I miss?” she asked as she pulled herself up onto the bar stool, a struggle that John too could sympathize with.

“Nothing, really,” John replied briskly. He was glad that his answer hadn’t earned himself a side-ways glance from Brad. It was not the words that worried John; in his mind, life with Sherlock Holmes was normal, and it was not so much of a talking point in any of his everyday conversations as much as it used to be. Maybe it was the speed at which he replied that would pose any sort of annoyance in Brad-

_Wait, what am I doing? What have I to be concerned about? Brad’s a nice guy. See? He probably didn’t even notice I had responded as quickly as I did._

John grabbed his glass, which had left a ring of condensation on top of the bar surface. He raised it to his lips and titled his head back, drinking the rest of the beer and watching the suds as they cascaded down the inside glass and into his mouth as well.

“Damn, John,” Sarah said when his glass hit the counter again.

“I was thirsty,” John said in a playful yet defensive tone. “Besides, I needed this. It’s been a long week.”

“You’re damn right,” Brad said and turned his attention to the television. “It does seem like the days are getting just a little bit longer as they go by.”

“Just one more week and all of these people with common colds will realize that all we are going to do is tell them to wait.” Sarah took a sip from her pint.

John sighed and got off of the bar stool. “Anyway, I need to be going.” He took out his wallet and left a few notes on the counter. “I’ll see you tomorrow during second shift.”

“See you, John.” Sarah too turned her attention the television screen and John exited the pub.

~

John watched as the city of London passed by his window. The way everything seemed to run in the opposite direction of the cab made him wonder if the cab was really going forward, or if the city actually was moving in the opposite direction. He knew it was preposterous, and it was most likely a product of his tipsiness. But either way, the lights inside the buildings, the pedestrians out enjoying the night, and the cars, cabs, and tour buses seemed to blend together into a collage of color and of metropolitan excitement. And it made him smile softly, because he actually got to see a different side of London for a change: not the battleground, but the hubbub of the average citizens. And over the years back in London, even during the time that Sherlock was supposed to be dead, John had never really fit into that category.

It was, to him, like seeing an entirely different world and all of the people who inhabited it. And, whether he wanted to or not, which at the time he was unsure of, it was a world he could never truly be a part of or be happy existing in. He had tried, and he had not succeeded.

**John gently rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. Her eyes, sad and tired, were fixed on his.**

**“I’m so sorry, John.”**

**He picked up the hand he was rubbing, held it up, and began to kiss her palm.**

**“I hope you can forgive me.”**

**“You have nothing to apologize for. None of this was your fault.”**

**A tear fell down Mary’s face. “She didn’t make it, did she?”**

**John was silent for a moment. “No.”**

The London Eye came in to view. John gazed at the bright blue lights that set it aside from the yellow of the British Parliament and the black of the night sky. He had only been on the Eye once, and he could hardly remember what he had seen.

**More tears fell down her cheeks as she silently sobbed, never once looking away from him, and he from her.**

**“Will you remember me as Mary Watson?”**

John turned away from the window and placed his gaze upon his feet. He found that he had subconsciously crossed his arms.

**“I wouldn’t call you anything else.”**

~

The cabbie had dropped him off directly out front of the flat, but he could not bring himself to go inside. The weather was formidable. And midnight had not even rolled around yet. So he decided to take up a place on the curb.

It was not long before he got a text.

_What are you doing? –SH_

John turned around and saw a dark figure looking at him from behind the curtains.

_I’m sitting here. What does it look like? –JW_

John sent the message and watched as the dark figure pulled out his own mobile to receive it. The blue light from the mobile illuminated his entire face made his cheekbones especially visible against the curtains. John’s phone buzzed again.

_But why are you sitting on the pavement? –SH_

_Because I wanted to. –JW_

The figure looked at the text and then disappeared from the window. John turned around and decided to watch the street. As a cab rolled by, the front door to 221B opened.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you. I’m just sitting here.”

“Why?”

“I told you that as well. I wanted to. Look, Sherlock, I’m not in the mood for this right now.”

“Why don’t you want to come inside?”

“I’m not objecting to going inside. I just want to sit out here for a few moments.”

Sherlock tucked his top lip between his bottom one, his beady eyes darting to and fro, taking in every aspect of John’s face. John braced himself, for he had seen that look too many times not to know what was about to happen next.

“Cold and flu season just started, and there has been a steady stream of patients coming in. They’re more than you’re usual workload, and you’ve had to tell a majority of them to go home, get rest, and wait it out, and many of those people were not agitated. You normally do the shopping yesterday and neglected to do so because of the Mclaughlin case. All of that compiled with your flashback last night gave you reason enough to go out and drink. You had two- no, _one_ pint, and then you left. On your way back, the cabbie took a more scenic route, and you fell into a wave of nostalgia, which nearly brought you to tears judging by the red rims around your eyes and nose. And now you are sitting in front of the flat rather than inside it because you wanted to reflect on whatever memories your mind had summoned while you were in the cab.”

John stared at him for a moment. As the tension began to slowly build, Sherlock smiled all small-like and asked, “Did I miss anything?”

John exhaled sharply. “No.” He slowly stood up. “Except for one thing.”

Sherlock’s smile faded, and before Sherlock put on his everyday mask, John saw what he would normally refer to as concern. “What?”

 _“You.”_ John pushed past Sherlock and entered 221B, closing the door behind him. He was soon followed.

“Look, whatever I did-“

John stopped on one of the stairs.

“I apologize.”

He took a tiny peak at Sherlock and then looked at the carpet. Sherlock looked as sincere as he had sounded.

“I know I haven’t been much of a help recently.”

_Damn him._

“Don’t. You have nothing to apologize for.”

John continued to walk up the stairs. Sherlock stood there for a moment and tried to process what he had just heard, as well as what on earth had even transpired between them, before ultimately following.

~

**The invisible, gaping hole in his chest had returned. To be honest, it was like he and the dead feeling inside of him had become friends. They most certainly had been through some lively times together, from the aftermath of Afghanistan, to Sherlock’s death, the brief period after Sherlock was shot, and now this.**

**Sherlock, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, knelt before him and rested one of his hands on John’s thigh.**

**“They’re gone,” John croaked. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it only made his voice shake more. “Both of them. Both of my girls are gone.”**

**John clenched the arm rests of the plastic chair they had provided him with. It was taking a lot of energy for him to keep from going in to tears- energy that he didn’t have. Sherlock’s eyes were also filling with water.**

**“I don’t know… what I’m supposed to do know,” John announced after a few moments of stifled sniffles. “I- I am at a loss.”**

**“I talked with Mary’s doctors,” Sherlock said in a low voice that John had never heard him use before. “There’s a grief counselor on staff who’s free at the moment.”**

**“I’m not talking to them.”**

**“John-“**

**“You of all people should be on my side with this. I’m not going and talking to them. End of story.”**

**Sherlock sighed. “It’s- it’s whatever you want. We’ll do whatever you think is best for right now.”**

**“I want to get out of this hospital. I want to go home.”**

**Sherlock nodded and stood up. “Very well. But, I must insist that you come to Baker Street.”**

**John managed to pull himself up. His left leg was numb with pain, and he hoped it would go away quickly, because the last thing he needed was to start limping again.**

**“Well, where else would I have gone?” John asked rhetorically.**

~

The fire cackled in the fireplace as it illuminated the area around their two chairs with light, creating shadows of themselves on the walls. The two mugs on the tea table, filled with piping hot water, proclaimed their heat with whispy grey flicks of steam, and they had subsequently been left alone until they were safe to drink from. The wind beat softly against the two windows in the sitting room. Sherlock sat in his chair starring at the ceiling with his hands neatly folded beneath his chin. John too had occupied his own chair accompanied by his laptop and was typing up an outline for his new blog post, since Brad’s comments at the pub had actually given some sort of drive to begin writing it.

“You’re making an outline.”

“Um, yes.”

“And what is so special about that?” Sherlock’s brows furrowed.

“Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve finally taken a neutral stance on my blog.”

“No, no.” Sherlock grinned. “You’ve never really made an outline. Well, not one this extensive.”

“I have a lot of details I need to organize.”

“Wrong again. You’re not planning on writing it now. You’re trying to get all of your thoughts down… because you aren’t going to write it tonight.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just trying to keep my mind occupied, since you don’t like it when I shoot the smiley face.”

“Don’t tell me you’re already bored.”

“Bored.”

John sighed and clicked the save button on his Word document. “Weren’t you working on an experiment?”

“It was concluded earlier this evening.”

John shut his laptop down and closed it. He grabbed his red mug from off of the tea table and took a sip from it. He knew he should at least be preparing to go to bed, but he was too ashamed to even admit to himself that he was the slightest bit afraid of falling asleep. He had not had a nightmare in months, not since the first few weeks after Mary died, and those certainly were not as vivid as the one he had experienced last night. The caffeine in his tea was also not going to be a beneficial factor in getting to sleep, but he had hoped that sharing it with Sherlock and the warmth the tea gave him would be enough to calm him down.

Sherlock got up from his chair, went over to the tea table, picked up his own mug, took a sip, and then immediately set it back down. “I think I’ll play my violin,” he announced before abruptly turning in his usual fashion making his way over to the violin’s case.

John sipped his tea while watching as Sherlock undid the two sliver clasps and flung open the black case. Sherlock stared at his violin as it sat among the greenish velvet that lined the case’s interior before picking up his bow and rosin. He then returned to his chair.

“Have you been struck with inspiration?” John asked.

“I wasn’t planning on composing anything,” Sherlock answered.

“Oh.” John looked down into his mug and looked at his reflection in his tea. He really needed to shave… “What were you going to play then?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh.”

John felt at a loss for what to say next. Conversations with Sherlock were beginning to become awkward, forced even. Like they were in the days when he had first returned to Baker Street. Having suddenly gained a new sense of exhaustion, he got up, went to the kitchen, poured the tea down the drain, and set the mug in the kitchen sink. He decided he would clean it tomorrow.

“I’m going to bed,” he called, and he got no response.

John went up to his bedroom and shut the door. The sweaty tee shirt from the previous night was still on the floor, though it had dried and had created a faint stench throughout the area. He made haste in putting it in his clothing basket at the bottom of the closet.

It was after he had slipped into his pajamas and had gone into his private half-bath that he heard the violin. He paused for a moment to listen to the soft notes that were emitted as Sherlock glided his bow along the violin’s strings. John brushed his teeth listening to a song that he had never heard Sherlock play before, at least according to his memory.

He climbed into his bed, and his eyes drooped, and he feel asleep seemingly surrounded by a melody that he was positive was a Sherlock Holmes original.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just had to establish a little domesticity before I start to add a little more angst.  
> Liked it? Think improvements could be made? Let me know.  
> Thank you for reading! And thank you for all of your support.


	3. When They Begin To Increase Our Toils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys. Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I was very busy, and I've also been in a dark place recently. So I apologize for the wait and the short length of this chapter.  
> That being said, I hope you enjoy it.   
> Sorry again for any mistakes that I might have missed.   
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.   
> Thank you.

The next five days passed by without much cause for record. John updated his blog and received no more attention from the readers or criticism from Sherlock than normal. John went in to the surgery for second shift, saw patients, prayed that he would be allowed to return to his normal hours to whatever deity cared enough to listen to him, and came to home Sherlock, who grew increasingly more insufferable as the week progressed.

John no longer had the willpower to argue with Sherlock during case hiatuses; in fact, it was likely that John had realized that any effort to reconcile the detective in _active_ boredom would prove to be futile during the first few weeks with Sherlock Holmes, if even that. Perhaps the relentless agitation made him continue to rebuke Sherlock every time the man shot the wall or broke something just to hear it shatter.

But now, when John came home and found Sherlock yelling at the telly, he merely walked right past him without so much as a glance and made his evening cup of tea.  When he found Sherlock shooting at the smiley face, he simply resumed his place in the red chair by the fireplace. As long as Sherlock was not in one of his darker moods, John saw no reason to intervene. In all reality, John felt as restless as Sherlock did.

On the sixth day, John, who was utterly exhausted from walking to the flat from the tube station alone, much less the workload he had endured (though it was his last scheduled day to work second shift), walked up the seventeen stairs to a suspiciously quiet flat, save for the audio coming from the telly, which was currently showing a news broadcast for the latest developments in parliament.

“Sherlock?” John called, not necessarily trying to get Sherlock’s attention- wherever he happened to be. Figuring that the detective was either off storming in his Mind Palace or simply shut away in his bedroom, John shrugged and made his way into the kitchen.

When he discovered that his favorite mug was not in its usual location in the cabinet next to the sink, John’s instincts immediately took him to the fridge, where he found it being used as a container for a clear chemical and two blue-colored eyes.

_No matter,_ he assured himself. _There must be another clean one around here somewhere. At least Sherlock kept himself somewhat occupied today._

He decided it was wise to go ahead and grab the almost-empty carton of milk out of the fridge, given that he was standing directly in front of it, and then went about trying to find any sort of cup that he could use for his evening tea. The sink had been steadily filling up with dirty plates from food consumption, since Sherlock had been getting better at cleaning up after his own experiments, and John had only had enough time and energy to clean up his favorite mug and the more commonly used plates and pots in the evening. Now that his favorite mug was being used for borderline mad-science purposes, he was now subject to going on a mini-adventure through all of the drawers and cabinets in order to discover some long-forgotten cup that would serve as a proper vessel for tea.

_Why do I even like tea so much?_ John slammed one of the cabinet doors closed, which vibrated the glass embedded in between the wood framing. _Why do I feel the need to drink this every time I get off from the surgery? Or any day in general!_

Soon enough, John found a Christmas-themed mug, of which he was uncertain who it originally belonged to. He balled his fist around the end of his jumper sleeve and used the make-shift duster to clean the dust that had gathered in the bottom and along the sides of the mug.

With a small, almost false sense of success, John placed the mug on the counter, poured in some milk, put a tea bag in it, filled up the kettle, and put the kettle on the stove.

When the kettle began to whistle, John was distantly reminded of the ear infections he had had as a child. _Bugger, those. Couldn’t hear a damn thing except that damned ringing. Hurt like hell too. At least Harry had bothered to keep me company._

He turned off the burner and opened the clasp on the spout. The tea bag immediately began to steep as soon as the hot water was poured over it, mixing with the milk, and forming a mixture as tan as John’s favorite jumper.  He place the kettle back on the stove in case Sherlock wanted to make himself (or have John make him) a cup of tea later. He swirled his tea bag around in the mug before taking it out and dumping it the trash bin.

“Ugh.” John wrapped his right hand around the handle and lifted the mug up to his lips. The steam gently caressed his philtrum. “Finally.” He then took a sip, not necessarily minding the burns on his tongue and the roof of his mouth as a result of the scalding, hot water. He did not swallow right away; instead, he swished the burning liquid around in his mouth for a few moments before allowing himself to swallow and proceed taking another sip.

“This is why I like tea,” John murmured, cocking his head back as a small, toothy smile crept across his lips. After a quiet chuckle, John brought his head forward and looked at the contents of the mug. Though the tannish tint of the tea made viewing his reflection in complete, full-color accuracy impossible, he could still see the physical effects that his life and recent events had wrought upon his face. His eyes, pink and surrounded by traces of dark circles and wrinkles, were sunken in, their dark blue iris color faded. His hair was matted and flat, while his cheeks bore what would have been a five o’clock shadow three days prior (he had not really found the right motivation and time to shave). Additional lines mapped out his face- tally marks of the years spent abroad and living a dangerous life that he became addicted to.

_Strange how Sherlock hasn’t said anything about it._ John ran his fingers through his already dissembled hair. _It’s nothing a shower, a shave, and full night’s rest can’t remedy._

With a heavy sigh, John made his way into the sitting room, cup in hand. He set it down on the tea table next to his chair, and, judging by how cold he still felt from the cooling weather, he decided to build a fire. His knees popped as he eased himself onto the ground before the fireplace.

Thanks to a few survival skills he had obtained during training and on tour, John had a warm blaze going in no time at all. The heat from the flames quickly filled the room. The light danced around the furniture and John, creating large shadows that grazed the ceiling. The remote sat idly in Sherlock’s chair, so John grabbed it and turned the damned telly off so that he could enjoy the silence.

He sat down in his chair and grabbed his mug off of the tea table. His eyes involuntarily closed as he tried to envelope himself in the warmth and serenity of the flat that he had grown to call home. This was what home was supposed to feel like.

Sherlock came around the corner buttoning the cuffs on his sleeve. He took a sideways glance at John before grabbing his Belstaff coat off of the rung behind the front door.

“We have a case,” he announced.

“Good,” John replied.

Sherlock walked out of the front door and proceeded to go down three stairs. He then realized that John was not following him and turned around.

“We have a case,” Sherlock said once more as he re-entered the sitting room.

“I know. You told me.”

“It’s a locked room homicide.”

“Perfect. You love those.”

“…Aren’t you coming?”

The wind beat against the windows, and John lifted the rim of his mug to his lips. “Um, no.”

Sherlock stood there for a moment, a perplexed look clearly visible on his face. “Why not? We’ve been waiting for this.”

“I know.”

“Then why aren’t you coming?”

“Because I don’t want to, Sherlock!” He sighed. “Look, go on your case. I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted across John’s form, taking in every possible detail. Finally, he turned and left.

~

John had been sitting in that exact same spot in his chair wondering if he should get up and do the dishes or let them wait a few more minutes when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He shifted his position so he could pull it out and read the message.

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 7:59**

**Hey mate. Didn’t see you at the crime scene. You and Sherlock fight?**

**From: John Watson**

**Time Sent: 8:01**

**No. We’re fine. I was just tired and didn’t feel like going.**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 8:05**

**Oh. Well, I only asked because Sherlock seemed… distracted. He was going about the crime spouting off deductions left and right, but he kept fidgeting and stammering. I noticed you weren’t with him, so when I pulled him aside to talk to him about it, he brushed it off.**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 8:06**

**It was like he didn’t even know what I was talking about.**

**From: John Watson**

**Time Sent: 8:08**

**I can’t really see why he would act like that. But thank you for telling me. Is he on his way back to the flat?**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 8:11**

**He just got into a cab. He didn’t say where he was going though. As normal.**

**From: John Watson**

**Time Sent: 8:14**

**Alright. I’ll ask him about it when he gets here. It’s probably something minor.**

He turned off his phone and put it back in his pocket. He decided that if the dishes had waited all week, then they certainly could wait about an hour longer.

**~**

Sherlock promptly slammed the door behind him and began to hastily remove his Belstaff coat. A thousand thoughts were racing through his head, but they, as well as his motor movements, stopped dead when his eyes caught sight of John.

 "What are you doing?”

 John held up the glass of gin he was holding. “Oh, this? Just having a drink.”

“You got into the liquor cabinet. “

 “Brilliant deduction, considering that that is where all of the liquor and proper glasses are in this flat anyway.”

 “Why are you having a drink?”

 “I wanted one. I felt like I deserved it. Why were you acting strange at the crime scene?”

 “Is that what Graham told you?”

 “His name is Greg, and yes, he told me how you acted. So what’s going on?”

 Sherlock stood there for a moment, unwavering, though his gaze was soft. “I was concerned.”

 “Concerned about what?” John drank more of his gin, the ice sloshing around the bottom of the glass. He made sure to keep his tone calm and quiet.

 “About you,” Sherlock replied after a few seconds of silence, and even his answer came out timidly.

 John sat back in his chair. “Why are you concerned about me?”

 Sherlock opened his mouth to say something a few times before going over to his own chair and sitting down. His unease was adding to John’s.

 “I don’t know what’s happening to you,” Sherlock said. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that.”

 "Oh, Sherlock. Nothing is happening to me. I’m just enjoying a drink after a long day. It’s alright.”

 A moment passed before Sherlock nodded. “I must be overreacting.”

 “It’s nothing to get yourself worked up about, Sherlock.”

 “Right… John?”

 “Yes, Sherlock?”

 “I know I’m not the best person to talk to when it comes to very sentimental matters, but I do regard you as a friend, and because of that I would be open to listening to you if there was something that we needed to address.”

 John smiled. “Likewise.”


	4. When Demons Pay Us A Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. I hope you all are well.  
> I've got a lovely chapter lined up for you guys, and I hope you enjoy it.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.

John got up the following morning with a slight migraine behind his left eye, a dull ache in his shoulder, and a knot in his chest. Thankfully, the night had passed by peacefully, and he was not scheduled to go into the surgery for a few days (Sarah and Brad now had the time to go on their holiday in Maui, and John had the opportunity to get comfortable and longue around the flat). So, despite his physical ailments, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the mattress in a haste only known to men with a determination to handle their daily responsibilities as quickly as possible.

John went down into the kitchen and set about making breakfast, since he could hear Sherlock in the shower and was determined to make the man join him. It had always been his favorite meal to prepare, mainly because he had just gotten rest and had not been subjected to any of the qualms of day-to-day life yet. The springs in the toaster began to glow a fiery orange as soon as John pulled down the lever, bringing two pieces of bread into the machine. The pink, raw bacon strips slowly began to sizzle, and soon John could smell the pleasant aroma that was one of the many reasons he enjoyed eating bacon.

 He had hoped to have eggs as well, but when he opened the fridge and grabbed the carton, he discovered that it was empty. He had mistakenly assumed the carton was full of eggs and had not thought to buy more eggs when he had gone out for groceries.

“Oh well,” he muttered as he placed the empty carton in the trash bin. “Too much cholesterol anyway.” He grabbed the electric kettle and began to fill it up with water

“You’ve made a habit of that recently.”

The deep voice startled John out of his thoughts, causing him to almost drop the kettle in the sink. Luckily, he had been able to catch it before he dropped it and lost all of the hot water it had collected. He turned and gave Sherlock an exasperated look.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” John said, panting lightly.

“I would have thought you were used to that by now,” Sherlock replied with a smirk, leaning against the door frame.

“I am.” John set the kettle down, his need for his morning tea gone. “That doesn’t mean I like it.”

Sherlock looked down at the tiles and then back up at John. “I understand.”

John turned back to the bacon. If he did not flip the strips soon, they were going to burn, and then the smoke detector would go off, and then his migraine (which had escalated slightly due to Sherlock’s aggravation) would get to the point where he could no longer stand the ache.

“Thank you,” John said quietly, flipping over a strip. The bacon sizzled more violently every time it was lifted from the greasy pan and lowered back into it.

The bread popped up out of the toaster, now a light shade of brown and complete with dark lines from the metal springs. Sherlock decided to remove both pieces of toast and place them on a plate. Even though Sherlock’s actions were unusual and likely the result of their conversation the previous night, John did not inquire into why Sherlock Holmes would do something as mundane as removing bread from a toaster.

“You must forgive me, for I’m not particularly hungry this morning,” Sherlock said, mainly to add some more human noises among the clattering of cooking utensils and the sizzling of meat. “I know you were planning on making me eat with you, but I promise I’ll eat later after I finish my work at the morgue.”

“I don’t necessarily care. As long as you eat something, and as long as it’s not a half-assed attempt at eating a meal, I’m alright with it.”

“You must be craving some sort of normalcy. After all, you’ve been eating on-the-go and the leftovers in the fridge for a majority of the week, and even then you didn’t have as much contact with other people during any of those times. You’ve been eating alone or in silence. Nothing really formal.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” John said. “Really.”

“I’m not so sure it is.”

John threw the tongs against the counter and the empty pan in the sink and turned abruptly. “I thought I made it very clear last night that I don’t need any of your help.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John-“

“Wha- AAH!” In his excitement, the sleeve of John’s robe had touched the stove burner, and now small, orange licks of flame were beginning to make their way up his sleeve.

**The first thought that he had when he came to was the fact that he couldn’t move. He realized that he was surrounded- _encased_ in a pile of wood and tinder.  His ribs definitely couldn’t hold the weight for very long, and from the pain in his chest specifically, he knew that a majority of them were bruised, and perhaps a few of them were broken. **

Sherlock was quick to grab the kettle from the nearby sink. He sloshed all of the water that was left inside onto John’s arm, extinguishing the small fire that had started on John’s robe.

**The next thing he realized was that he couldn’t breathe. There were small holes in between the blanks of wood, and he could have sworn he saw up to the night sky through these holes. But with the weight upon his torso, it was hard for him to take advantage of the limited oxygen supply he had been given.**

“John.”

“John, please. Let me look at it.”

**He could hear voices. People. People were cheering and singing.**

**_Oh God._ **

**He tried his best to cry out, but either his screams got caught in his throat, or they came out as weak, tired croaks- nothing of which was loud enough to both cut through the wood and resonate above the merriment of those around the bonfire.**

“No. N0!” He cradled his singed forearm. The robe was absolutely ruined, but his flesh remained unharmed, thanks to Sherlock’s quick thinking.

“I’m not trying to hurt you!”

**He could feel the flames getting closer. He tried to scream louder, but the oxygen reservoir above his head was being eaten up by the fire, which only glowed brighter by the second. He knew he was going to die. He knew the flames were going to eat away at his flesh, and he was going to scream in pain, and then everyone would realize that he was in there, but it would be too late for anyone to help him.**

“Shh. It’s okay. Here, sit down.”

John let himself be guided to the floor.

**His vision began to blur. Whether it was from tears or fading consciousness, he couldn’t tell. The wood no longer felt heavy on his body. The heat from the fire no longer felt so close to his skin. Instead, he focused his attention on the cheers of the people around him.**

“It doesn’t look bad. You’re very lucky. But you will probably want to toss this robe.”

**And just when all hope had been lost, he felt two strong hands grab his shoulders. Suddenly, he found himself looking up at the foggy, London sky, his lungs taking in the fresh air. Two faces appeared above him, one of the man who had saved him, and the other of the woman who had accompanied him.**

John leaned his head back against the cabinet and tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. He became aware of how heavy his breathing was. Sherlock had a firm grip on his bare forearm, and Sherlock was using his free arm to hold John close to him.

“I’m sorry,” John managed to say in between breaths.

“It’s okay. Just breathe.”

John did as Sherlock commanded and turned his attention to his breathing. Sherlock let go of John’s arm and reached up and turned off the stove burner. John noticed a wetness on his cheeks that did not come from the water in the kettle.

“Damn.” John muttered as he used his remaining sleeve to dry his face.

Sherlock wrapped both arms around him. “You had another flashback.”

John nodded, leaning into Sherlock’s embrace. His eyes felt warmer, and he did not know whether or not he was going to break down again.

“I bet you’re hungry,” Sherlock announced, though his voice was soft. He grabbed the plate of toast off of the counter and set in on the floor before the two of them. “The bacon fell on the floor during your flashback, but you can have the toast.”

John looked at the pile of bacon strips in front of the stove. Sherlock picked up one of the pieces of bread and handed it to him, which he gladly accepted and began to munch on.

“Better?”

John nodded.

“Good.” Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began to furiously text while John ate his piece of toast silently.

When Sherlock was done with whatever message he needed to send, he put his mobile back into his pocket and grabbed John’s fore arm once more.

“Do I need to stay here a bit longer?” he asked, sincerity in his electric aqua eyes.

“No,” John replied.

Sherlock looked him over, deciding whether or not it was safe to leave John by himself, and then stood up. He extended a hand to help John off of the floor.

“Right, I’m going to the morgue. If I find what I’m looking for, and I know I will, and if Lestrade insists on me staying to help with the report, and I know he will, then I should be back this afternoon. Then, we can see to it that you get a proper meal with someone else… and perhaps a new housecoat.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Well, John, you really should be thankful for that accident. The housecoat was just as dreadful as one of your jumpers. To be honest, the singes give it a flair it never had before.”

~

John had made it to lunch without giving his flashback form earlier much thought. While he was trying to enjoy a turkey, ham, and cheese sandwich, the specifics of the scene seemed to play before his eyes again. He had occupied his mind with his laptop and news stories on the telly, but now that Sherlock was gone and he was engaged in a less mind-involved task, the details of that horrific memory came at him full-force, and his arm began to ache as though it really had been burned in the accident from earlier.

His heartbeat began to quicken, but John knew he had to control himself. Sherlock was no longer there, and Mrs. Hudson had gone out to get groceries for her own flat earlier. There was no one in 221 Baker Street who could help him, and he knew he had to calm himself down.

He set down his sandwich and tried his breathing techniques, but his heart only raced faster. He could begin to smell the burning gasoline…

_I need to sit down._

John made his way back into the sitting room. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he began to feel the heat from the flames as though they were surrounding him once more. He drew in an exhausted breath as he eased himself into his chair, just trying to get his breathing under control.

_Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

John’s hurried breathing turned into loud, alarming gasps. His chest felt heavy, and I kept feeling more and more constricted. Distraught, he looked around the room for anything that could ease his nerves, at least until somebody else got home or if he succeeded in getting himself under control.

It was then that he saw the unlocked liquor cabinet out of the corner of his eye. He had neglected to lock it up last night after his drink, but his laziness had now proved to be a god-send, since he could not have found the key and unlocked it in his current state.

He shook as he stood up, but he managed to remain balanced as he made his way over to the liquor cabinet. He opened the cabinet, pulled out the first bottle that his hands touched, and examined the label. Gin. Perfect.

He then grabbed a glass. Within seconds, John’s shaky hands had the showy cap off of the bottle and was filling his glass. He then drank all of its contents before setting the glass back down and pouring himself another one. (The first glass had reduced the labor in his breathing, but there was no noticeable change in his shaking, nor the images flashing before him).

Halfway through his second glass, his extremities were under his full control, and John smiled in relief. Calmly, he went back to his chair and sat down to finish the rest of his beverage. The gin bottle, which had been close to empty when John had pulled it out, sat with only a few sips of liquid left on top of the cabinet.

~

Later that evening, while Mrs. Hudson was baking muffins, a knock came on the door.

“Now, what client could be coming in at this hour?” she asked herself as she hobbled over to the front door. She opened it and saw a tipsy John draped over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she quickly moved out of the way. Sherlock brought John, who was a giggly mess, inside and set him on the stairs.

“How much did he have to drink, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered, defeat evident in his tone. “He only had a few glasses of wine- no more than he normally would. He- he had to have had something to drink before we went out. He did seem to be a little joyous when we went out shopping. There’s no way someone could have slipped him something either…”

John laughed and tried to stand up, only to ultimately fall back onto the stairs.

“What do you want me to do?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Dispose of this, please.” Sherlock handed her a putrid-smelling shopping bag.

“Augh! Sherlock, what is this?”

He went forth and picked his giddy flat mate up off of the stairs. “It’s a bag that contains a housecoat, as well as John’s dinner and gastric acid.” He then gave her a sympathetic kiss. “Do trust me. It’s the lesser of the difficulties we have to deal with.”

~

John had immediately passed out as soon as Sherlock had placed him in (Sherlock’s) bed. Sherlock placed an empty bucket, a bottle of water, and a washcloth on the nightstand for when John woke up in the full-swing of a hangover. He decided it was best to leave the aspirin off of the table until the morning.

Sherlock came into the sitting and came face-to-face with the culprit of the awkward evening, the reason John seemed excited to try on clothes and was indecisive about which housecoat he wanted, the reason John hugged Angelo as soon as he came out to their table, and the reason for John seeming so excited to have the wine brought out to their table.

He picked up the gin bottle and stared at his reflection in the cherry-brown liquid.

 _Idiots,_ he thought. _We are both idiots._

~

John groaned as he slowly began to open his eyes. His head throbbed, and his face was wet with drunken sweats. He tried to sit up, but his stomach churned, and he could feel the bile slowly rise up in his throat. He turned over to throw up and was surprised to find not only a bucket, but someone who was willing to hold it while he vomited.

When his coughing died down, John sat back in bed and realized that he was in Sherlock’s room.

“I’m sorry,” John murmured, holding his head.

“Do you even remember what happened last night?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded disappointed.

John was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think I want to.”

“Can I ask you another question, then?”

“I’m not in a position to argue.”

Sherlock set the bucket back on the nightstand. “Why did you drink before we went out?” Sherlock asked. He already knew the answer.

“I was starting to have a panic attack. I- I could see myself back in the bonfire.”

“And so, you went to the liquor cabinet in hopes of getting some relief from your anguish.”

“If you already know so much about what happened yesterday, why did you ask?”

He was quiet for a moment. “John, if this is some form of retaliation-“

“I’m not rebelling against you or trying to hurt you. Okay? I got drunk one time. I’ve gotten drunk lots of times in my life.”

“The reason for my concern is your reasons behind getting drunk. You got drunk yesterday because you were trying to avoid dealing with your psychiatric issues. You were not trying to have good time. You were trying to avoid having a full-fledged panic attack.”

“You certainly are one to talk,” John murmured. He immediately regretted it. “Oh, look-“

“It’s fine, John. But please, let’s try to focus on present issues.”

John nodded. “Alright.”

Sherlock sat down on the bed, careful not to sit on John’s legs. “You have a family history of alcoholism, as well as an obsessive and thrill-seeking personality, though not as bad as mine. This puts you at a risk for alcohol addiction. As someone who has battled an addiction before and continues to battle it, as well as someone who is your friend, I must insist that if you ever need assistance calming down that you contact me or Mrs. Hudson or anybody.”

John starred at the far wall, too ashamed to bring his attention to Sherlock’s face. “I know. I- I don’t know what happened. I-“

Sherlock held his hand up to keep John from talking further. “I know, that if the roles were reversed, and if I had a relapse, you would do the same for me.”

John nodded. “I understand.”

“I need my blogger. And I need to be his detective.” Sherlock stood up. “There’s a washcloth and a water bottle over here as well. I’ll go dump out this bucket and get you some aspirin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for any mistakes. I try to catch them all, but I'm only human. I think I'm going to put out a new chapter every Sunday. So, if you are keeping up with this story, please know that you can expect an update around that time.  
> Thank you for reading.


	5. When Our Anger Fuels Our Actions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. As promised, your weekly update. My apologies for any mistakes that I might have missed.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.

Sherlock had managed to coax food into John later that morning. John, in all of his hung-over stupor brought abought by a raging headache, found it quite awkward to have the unspoken roles of their friendship reversed. But he was too sickly to make a comment about it, nor would he have necessarily said something about Sherlock’s display of sentiment if he was completely sober and not afflicted by a pounding head and a twisting stomach.

Sherlock allowed John to stay in his bed for as long as he needed, though this was rather an unspoken acknowledgement, and came to check up on him sparingly (usually when Sherlock could hear John retching), giving John as much space as he needed. John’s mind kept wandering back to what Sherlock had said to him when he came to, as not even the discomfort of the aftermath of his alcohol consumption the night before could tear him away from his flat mate’s hard truths.

John, as a medical professional and as a person of normal rationality, knew that he had done wrong. He had grown up and worked with enough addicts to know that this was how it started; the substance, whatever it may be, provided an escape to whatever stresses the person was under. With his father, it was his job. With Harry, it was Clara. With Sherlock, it was the lack of people that appeared to care, and it was an easy way to occupy the lonely hours (John had only assumed through clues that he had received over the years, since he never really thought it right of himself to pry that far into Sherlock’s affairs from before he had met him).

He was related to two addicts, and now he was living with one, even though John never liked to view Sherlock in that light. He had recently undergone severe emotional trauma and had a history of PTSD, though any thought of his life before or away from Sherlock seemed to bring him into a state of anger and denial about those labels.

But John knew he had to be more careful. He had to watch himself, least he get this drunk again, and least he form a dependency. He had to watch himself as Sherlock now was (and as Mycroft always had done, and John had a feeling that the government official was apt to interfere with their lives at Baker Street at any given moment, especially after last night).

So, as John laid there and tried to swallow the residual burning in his throat from throwing up, he decided to take Sherlock’s advice, as baffling as that sounded in his head, and vowed to watch himself and his alcohol intake.

~

It had been four alcohol and case-free days before they got a text from Greg.

John had accompanied Sherlock on his next case: a double homicide, and at least a seven on Sherlock’s highly advanced and detailed crime scale. They had climbed into the back of a cab, and Sherlock had issued the address of the scene in a rapid-fire but eloquent manner. As the cab sped away and the distance from the flat increased, John found his gaze directed to the sidewalks.

He wasn’t really watching the pedestrians or looking at the passing buildings; his eyes simply drifted in their directions as he was deep in thought. He normally felt excited when Sherlock wanted John to accompany him to a crime scene, and he got his fair share of thrills from the chases as Sherlock did. But today, he found himself feeling indifferent towards the entire idea of the case. And he certainly wasn’t looking forward to writing up a post about it. Perhaps no one would notice? Perhaps no one would pay attention?

“John.”

His head snapped away from the window. “What is it?”

“Should I be concerned?”

“No,” John replied, an edge of annoyance and confusion in his voice. He cleared his throat to prevent it from appearing as he continued to speak. “Why would you feel the need to be concerned?”

“Defensive,” Sherlock stated, although to no one in particular. “Should we go back to the flat?”

“What? No! There’s no reason for us to do that.”

“You clearly are dreading going to the scene and are defensive when asked simple questions. I don’t believe that you are fit to come with me.”

“Since when have you been able to declare that?” John asked, rising away from the back of the seat. He realized this, and eased back down into his seat.

“I am not your enemy,” Sherlock said. “At least I try not to be. You make think me that way now.”

John shook his head and sighed. “No, I don’t think you’re my enemy. I just wish you would leave things alone that are fine.”

“Do you really want to come with me? And please be honest, John. You’re a terrible liar, and it’s a terrible sight to watch unfold.”

“Yes! For crying out loud.”

Sherlock glanced at John and then turned away. “Very well.”

~

Sherlock practically shoved John into the back of the cab. John, who was still hyperventilating, put on his seat belt with shaky hands and curled up into his seat.

“221 Baker Street!” Sherlock yelled at the cabbie before slamming the partition shut. The cabbie, a little thrown off by both of their hysterics, looked at them in his rear-view mirror before shrugging his shoulders and beginning to drive.

“You told me you could handle it!” Sherlock said, his voice raised to a point that John thought would never be directed at him.

“I thought I would be,” John replied, his breath becoming more ragged as he too was becoming frustrated. “You should have told me it was two children!”

John had been fine until they had brought him into the room where the two bodies were. An innocent boy and girl laid upon the floor, their outfits tattered and their faces permanently contorted in faces of distress. John had been timid at first, but when Sherlock asked him to examine the bodies, he did. And being that close to them, seeing their little ringlets up close, holding their tiny, cold hands in his gloved one… He had found himself momentarily back in Mary’s hospital room. Sherlock had realized what was happening and had pulled John from the crime scene, even issuing Greg an apology.

“I know,” Sherlock replied. “That was my mistake.”

“I can’t believe that just happened,” John said. He had had flashbacks in public after the war, but back then, he hadn’t been so cautious about them, since he knew no one was really watching. Now, he was sure he had attracted the eyes of Sherlock, Mycroft, and possibly Greg. “Just what I needed. Now more people are going to keep hounding my ass, asking if I’m alright or not. That’s going to be all I hear.”

“Maybe that’s what you need to hear.” Sherlock was much more composed now, and that made John even angrier.

“No! I do not need any more of this. Don’t you get it, Sherlock? You’re not helping.”

“Then tell me what I can do to help you. I-“Sherlock trailed off. “I want to help you. And what happened today was my fault. But please, there’s no reason to get so flustered with us.”

John’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. He huffed and pulled it out, discovering that Greg indeed was wondering what was wrong with him. “Ah, fuck me.”

“John-“

“No.” John waved his hand dismissively. “I’m done hearing you talk.” He was so angry that tears were beginning to form in his eyes. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

John opened the partition and told the cabbie to pull over. He stepped out and walked at a pace must faster than normal away from the cab. The cab sat by the curb for a few moments before Sherlock too jumped out from the back seat.

“John, this is ridiculous.”

“You’re damn right it is.”

“Will you please come back to the cab?”

“No.”

Sherlock, with his longer legs and gracious gate, had caught up to John in no time at all. He reached out and lightly took hold of John’s arm, causing him to stop. John tried to break free, but gentle as Sherlock’s hold was, it was also firm, and John found himself unable to continue walking forward.

“Let me go.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have no idea of what you’re going to do once I do let go. But I have an inkling.”

“Try to deduce this, smartass.” John then tried to elbow him, but Sherlock, who had been anticipating such a blow, quickly dodged it. He took John by surprise and grabbed his other arm and led him into a nearby alley which reeked of garbage and cigarette smoke.

“What are you doing?!” John exclaimed as Sherlock held him against the brick wall.

“What I have to,” Sherlock replied. “I’m not releasing you until you’re calm.”

“You arrogant prick.”

“John, calm down.”

“I will not! I have a right to be angry.”

Sherlock shifted his grip to John’s shoulders. “Please.”

They stood there like that for a few moments before John’s breathing slowed down. Sherlock never took his eyes away from John’s, and as John began to become level-headed again, the tears that were in his eyes fell down his cheeks, and he began to sniffle.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John croaked. “I- I didn’t mean any of it.”

Sherlock took a hold of John’s hands. “I know. I know. I spurred this on. But nonetheless, are you alright now?”

John sniffed. “Yes.”

Sherlock let go of his hands. John balled his fists around the sleeve of his jumper and wiped his cheeks. John’s mobile vibrated once more.

“You should want to meet up with Gabe tonight,” Sherlock said, his voice having resumed its trademark solemnity. “As you said, he’s terribly worried. It would be the kind thing to do, I believe.”

John nodded. They both walked out of the alley, Sherlock’s hand on the middle of John’s back, which John did not mind. Sherlock quickly found them another cab and let John get into the back first.

~

John had never been to Greg’s flat prior to that night, but based upon first impressions, John could tell that a man had lived in the flat. Papers and plates lay strewn about. A duvet sat unfolded on one of the sofas. The telly had been set on to the latest sports recap. A stray bottle of cologne had ended up on the coffee table.

_Yep,_ John thought. _Doesn’t get any more single than this, now does it?_

“Sorry ‘bout the mess,” Greg said, grabbing what looked like case paperwork off of one of the seats and throwing it into an even bigger pile of stuff. “Don’t really get the chance to clean up as often as I should.”

“I know the feeling,” John said with a smirk as he sat down in the space that Greg had made.

“You want something to drink?” Greg asked. “I’ve got a few beers in the fridge.”

_He doesn’t know yet._ John subconsciously straightened up in his seat. _Well, what could it really hurt? Sherlock certainly can’t expect me to stay away from alcohol completely. Besides, I’m with Greg, and I’m only going to have one or two. Harmless, really._

“Sure,” John replied. Greg nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. He came back holding two, brown bottles. John made quick work of taking the top off.

“So,” Greg began as he nestled into the chair directly in front of John. The sports show on the telly switched to a promotion for the upcoming football match. “How’s life at Baker Street?”

“Chaotic, as usual.” John took a swig from his bottle. “You know that’s how it always is when Sherlock’s around.”

Greg laughed huskily. “Do I ever.” He too sipped from his beer. “But still.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, mate. I’m just curious about what’s been going on.” Greg looked off into the kitchen and then back at John. “I need to know that my star detective and his doctor are alright.”

“I can assure you. Sherlock hasn’t caused any great harm to himself or me- yet.” Before Greg could interject, John continued. “We’ve already discussed what happened today. It’s probably best if I take a few weeks away from the cases anyway.”

Greg nodded, understanding the boundary. “Well then. Cheers? It’s been a rough week for me as well.”

John smiled. “Cheers.”

Their bottles clicked together. The commercials on the telly ended.

~

John walked up the stairs to the flat. He was a little light-headed, since he had consumed an extra beer that he hadn’t planned on (but only because Greg insisted). He saw that the door was open, but it caused no alarms to go off in his head, since Sherlock liked to keep the doors open as often as possible, only closing them when someone he deemed to be a thought inhibitor came into the flat.

It was when John saw the umbrella leaning against the wall that he realized that the only thought inhibitor that could actually break down that door was inside the flat.

“Oh, good evening Dr. Watson. Perfect timing. Would you care to join us?”

John looked at Sherlock, but the consulting detective was offering no objection or snarky remark to his brother that night.

_At least Mycroft isn’t sitting in my chair._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and all of your support. I hope you enjoyed it.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung


	6. When Trust is Tested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. It's nice to see you again. Here's your weekly update, as promised.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

John slowly made his way over to his chair and sat down. Mycroft, whose hands were balled into fists inside his suit pockets, watched him intently with a fake sympathetic smile. John wondered what the politician was about to issue to him and Sherlock that night, and whether or not Sherlock was going to stand by his brother or not. By the looks of it, John was guessing that he was about to be pushed into a corner by the two Holmeses.

Ironically, no one spoke for a few seconds. John began to rub his temples in a symbolic and vain attempt at clearing the buzz from his head.  John kept his eyes trained on the floor, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft’s smile fade when he and Sherlock exchanged a glance. They had reached some sort of understanding. Before Mycroft could slip on his casual, everyday mask of indifference, John saw a melancholic twinkle in his eyes, and it made John wonder what all the two brothers had decided to discuss before he had entered the flat.

“Well,” John sighed. “What do you want to say to me?”

Mycroft cleared his throat, causing the corners of his mouth to twitch. “Sherlock and I were reviewing the events from earlier today.”

“Oh.” John rested his head on his propped-up fist. Of course.

Mycroft continued. “Given what I saw on the CCTV cameras this afternoon, I felt the need to discuss possible issues involving both Sherlock’s and your safety. My brother and I have come to the consensus that you pose no threat to Sherlock’s well-being…”

_No shit,_ John thought, blinking his eyes a few times to clear his sudden dizziness. He was trying so hard to concentrate on what Mycroft was saying, but the woozy feeling in his head and Sherlock’s watchful gaze was making it difficult.

“… But we do believe that your actions may result in damage to your overall health, whether it be physical or mental. We also agree that Sherlock should be the one to handle these matters more closely, considering your current relations and Sherlock’s reactions to…”

_Please, don’t say tantrum,_ John thought. _Please, don’t call it that._

“…Your episode.”

Sherlock removed his fingers from the bottom of his chin. “It’s my responsibility to take it from here.”

Mycroft nodded and straightened his coat. “I hope to return to this flat later this week to check up on how things are developing.” He grabbed his umbrella off of the far wall. “In the meantime-“he exchanged another glance with Sherlock. “I trust my brother can handle this.”

Mycroft turned and left, leaving a silent Sherlock and an anxious John in his wake. Sherlock kept watching him, but John refused to start any conversation. He couldn’t even muster up the courage to talk to his own best friend. He heard the front door close, and John began to feel sick at his stomach with a foreign sense of worry.

“Greg knows,” Sherlock stated. “After you left his flat, he texted me, and I, with the discretion of my brother, told him about our current situation. I can clearly tell that you have had quite a few beers tonight.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” John replied softly. “He offered, and I took them.”

“Were you hoping that I wouldn’t find out?”

John rubbed his eyes. “I knew you would. I was hoping you wouldn’t make a big deal out of it and blow this whole thing out of proportion.”

“John, this is serious. If anything, Mycroft and I are giving you much more freedom than we should.”  Sherlock sighed and placed his arms on the hard, black armrests of his chair. “I should have taken you to see a therapist the moment you got back into the cab with me. But I didn’t. And do you know why?”

John sat there for a moment, not really thinking about the answer to Sherlock’s question. “Why?”

“Because even though it would have been the right thing to do, it might not have been the best choice for your circumstances. And it’s also why Mycroft believes you should be absolved into my care, should this persist.”

John lifted his head up and folded his hands in his lap. He didn’t know how to respond.

“I know,” Sherlock began, “that you are smart enough to know when you are hurting yourself and that you care enough about me to stop torturing the both of us in this way.”

“For the last time, I’m not trying to hurt you or myself!” John yelled. He hated the fact that he and Sherlock kept going around in circles about this so-called issue. “Can I just have a beer every once in a while? Hmm?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you having a drink!” Sherlock replied, his voice rising slightly as well. “It becomes a problem when you try to hide from whatever is happening inside of your head.” He drew in a deep breath. “I should know.”

“I don’t want to take this shit.” John got of his chair, his face hot with anger. He had no idea what had brought about his rage, or why he had given into it so quickly. Though anger was always uncomfortable to John, it did make him feel separated from Sherlock and his opinions.

Due to his light drunkenness, John began to fill dizzy from the sheer speed at which he stood up. He reached out with one of his hands to steady himself against his chair, and Sherlock had stood up as well and had grabbed his shoulder to offer him support. John jerked his shoulder out of Sherlock’s grasp, triggering phantom pain in his arm, which radiated from his scar.

“Aah!” John winced and used his other arm to rub his shoulder. ‘Son of a bitch!”

“John-“

“No!” He gave an awful glare to his flat mate. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll handle it.”

~

John threw his suitcase on the bed. His shoulder had stopped causing him grief, but he was still fuming. In the midst of his rage, he had wondered if all that he had drank had loosened the bridle that he normally kept around his anger, but he was also too irritated to stop what he was doing in order to ponder it further.

A knock came on his bedroom door.

“John,” Sherlock called.

“Still following me, it would seem,” John muttered.

“You must forgive me.” He sounded exhausted. “I don’t understand why you snapped. Perhaps I stepped into tender territory too quickly, and that upset you.”

John unzipped the largest compartment of his suitcase and lifted the flap.

“I understand that you probably feel that your privacy has been hindered, and the fact that I’m standing here outside of your door talking about it can’t be helping matters.”

John pulled out a few pairs of socks from his dresser. He had no desire to listen to anything that Sherlock had to say. He was only a bit buzzed! And besides, Sherlock had seen him drunk many times before. Just because he had a few flashbacks, which were perfectly normal for someone who had been exposed to the same traumatic situations that he had, now every drop of liquor he consumed had to be monitored?

“Will you at least invite me in?”

He pulled a few jumpers off of their respective hangers and threw them into the suitcase as well. “Let me think. Hmm, no.”

“Will you tell me what made you so upset?”

“Well, genius,” John began, fighting the urge to open his bedroom door and yell right into Sherlock’s face. “If you were more socially adept, you would realize that people don’t really like it when they lose their freedoms over nothing!”

“You’re not losing your freedoms, John. We’re just watching you more closely.”

“Yeah, and you’ll be sure to smack any wine glass I raise right out of my hand.”

“For the last time, I have nothing against you drinking now and then. I’m concerned about your health.”

With a grunt, John threw his trousers on top of the clothing pile he had created in his suitcase, rushed over to the door, and yanked it open. “Since when have you been so concerned about my health?”

Sherlock looked directly into John’s eyes. “Since our first case.” He sighed. “I just want you to be safe. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted for you.”

John huffed and looked down, though his presence at the doorway still kept his bedroom guarded. Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder and saw the suitcase on John’s bed. “You’re leaving.”

“Brilliant deduction. I need to get away from here for a few days.”

Sherlock bit his lip, a clear indication of the turning cogs inside of his brain. “It’s your choice. I can’t prevent you from leaving. Do you need money for the hotel? I do believe Greg’s been warned to contact Mycroft of what you say if you ever show up at his flat again, and I do believe your drinking buddies are still away on vacation.”

“They’re names are Sarah and Brad!” John shouted. “And they’re not just my drinking buddies. And I don’t want your money.”

“How long are you planning on being gone?”

“I don’t know. At least a couple of days.”

“Then I insist.”

“Sherlock-“

“Would you like to stay at a hotel with running water and a working heating system?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then I suggest you take it.” Sherlock pulled out his wallet from his back pocket. “Consider it my apology.”

~

John had reluctantly taken the money and had gotten himself a considerably expensive suite in the closest hotel to the flat, and still had a small sum of Sherlock’s cash left over. As soon as he had been shown to his room, he had thrown his suitcase and Sherlock’s money on top of the ottoman at the end of the bed, gone into the bathroom, and had gotten himself a bath going in the tub.

When the water had risen to a level that John liked, he turned off the faucet and turned on the hydraulic water jets. The machines hummed to life, and soon the turquoise water was foaming with bubbles from the added pressure.

John sighed in relief as he climbed into the tub. The water felt so good against his skin, especially his shoulder. He rested his back against the padding installed against the porcelain and allowed himself to simply breathe. His buzz had worn off during the cab ride to the hotel, but the bath was relieving his nerves just as efficiently. He practiced his breathing techniques a few times before his eyes closed and his thoughts wondered back to Sherlock.

He had lost his temper again.

John put his hands over his face. _Sherlock knows not to believe anything I say when I become that frustrated. He knows it will pass. It- It shouldn’t have to be that way, but…_ He lowered his arms back into the water. _He knew I had to let off steam. That’s why het lent me the money. He knew I had to get away and have some time to myself._

_He trusts me enough to let me go off on my own._

~

John hovered outside the entrance to the hotel’s bar. He really should have considered this when he had chosen the hotel, as he likely would have picked another place to stay. But, his muscles were tense, the hotel was close, and the entrance had looked fancy and inviting enough for John’s tastes.

He stood off to the side and checked his phone, as if to show all of the other people in that area that he was merely stopping to check his text inbox and was not battling between enjoying himself, betraying his best friend’s trust, and receiving an early and most unwanted visit from that best friend’s older brother.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw that there was a bar stool open in front of one of the television screens, which happened to be playing a rugby game. He could hear the clattering of glasses and the soft chatter of those who were inside drinking, but besides that, the bar was silent and peaceful.

After watching the entire scene for a few moments, John went inside and took his place at the stool that no one else seemed to want.

~

It was difficult for John to slide his room key into the card reader on the lock. It took him a few tries, but he managed to slip the card inside the lock system and open his room. He had used his own money that he was originally planning to bring with him during his time away from Baker Street to purchase multiple rounds of vodka, which were a direct result of an evolving self-esteem after he drank his first round.

John fell to floor as soon as he crossed the threshold and closed the door with his left foot. The room key had landed further away from him and closer to the telly.

John giggled softly as he pulled himself up onto the bed. He frowned when he noticed the water that had gathered on his cheeks, and he used the white bedsheets to wipe it away.

John took out his phone, which had managed to stay in his pocket until the bar had closed. With blurry vision, he opened his contacts and opened a conversation with Sherlock. But even in his drunken state, he knew it was better to leave Sherlock alone until after his break was over and it was time to return to the flat. There was nothing he really wanted to say, since his mind was more focused on rest.

He turned his phone off, threw it against the bed, and before he knew it, John was asleep.


	7. When We Begin Our Descent (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. I'm so happy to see that you are still reading. It really means a lot to me, and I can't thank you enough. That being said, I hope you enjoy what I have in store for this week.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock. This is a work of fanfiction. I am getting no monetary gain from this.  
> ... Though it would be pretty awesome to write for the actual show, wouldn't it?  
> TRIGGER WARNING: Things are about to start getting intense.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

**“John.... John! Get down!” He dived down to avoid being struck by a stray bullet.**

**…**

**“John.” Mary leaned forward to grab onto the dining chair to steady herself. “John!”**

**…**

**“We’re sorry, Doctor Watson. We did everything we could. You, of all people, must understand that.” The woman sighed. She tossed her surgical mask over in her hands. “There’s a grief counselor on the next level. He’s highly trained and-“**

**…**

**“It’s whatever you want.”**

John sat up in bed, drenched in sweat form both his shape-shifting nightmare and his alcohol consumption. He immediately regretted his autonomic reaction, as the jolt made his stomach roll and his head throb. He stared at the wallpaper and tried to breathe, hoping it would ease his nausea and prevent him from giving up what little he had on his stomach, and to his relief, it worked in the sense that he no longer felt the bile in his throat.

He slowly turned around to check the digital clock on the nightstand. He had to blink his eyes a few times in order to read the glowing, red numbers.

“Seven o’clock…” John said to himself. He glanced at the windows. “Those curtains block out everything.”

With a heavy sigh, John laid back down. He knew the chances of him having to get up again to vomit were likely, and the ear-splitting headache would be calmed with at least a glass of water and an aspirin, but he was content with enjoying the memory foam mattress until the need to get up became more urgent.

~

The computer screen glowed white from all of the footage gathered form the CCTV cameras inside the hotel. Mycroft sighed as he watched Dr. Watson, who was barely able to stand, climb the winding stairs to get to his room. He had actually walked past his room more than once before finally realizing that his hotel room was right beside him.

Mycroft knew it was best if he contact Sherlock first before making any moves against John to protect the man’s health, but he knew that though he could get farther with Watson than he could with his younger brother, Mycroft could not have a great influence over John unless Sherlock was involved. Sherlock himself had not responded in the way that Mycroft had hoped he would. At large, Sherlock was essentially giving John the space to do whatever he wanted to himself. And Mycroft could understand that Sherlock would want to give him time to reflect on what has happened, and from what he had seen, Sherlock was willing to be open with John.

However, Mycroft still feared of what was going to happen to the doctor if he could not convince Sherlock to intervene or to let him put a stop to Watson’s escalating behavior.

Mycroft unlocked his mobile, which was buzzing systematically with messages from his superiors. He made no move to answer them just yet, since he knew what they were likely to be complaining about, and something more personal was more worthy of his divine attention.

He found his brother among his contacts and opened a text thread with him.

**7: 30 I’m sending a car your way. You had better come and see this. –MH**

**7:32 What could you possibly want from me now? –SH**

**7:33 I’m not the one who requires your assistance, Sherlock. –MH**

~

John gripped the edge of the toilet as he heaved. His throat was burning with a fiery rage, his head was pounding with every heartbeat, his stomach was flipping, and he felt like he was swimming in a pool of his own sweat. He reached up and pulled the lever, glad to see the results of his hangover disappear.

He sat back against the tub, wishing he had enough willpower to get up and turn the bathroom light off, as it was far too bright, and it made him dizzy every time he tried to look at it. The shower curtain served as a small cushion as he rested his head against the tub’s cold rim. With his left hand, he grabbed a bit of his t-shirt and wiped his face. (It had occurred to him when he had entered the bathroom for the first time that morning that he had slept in the clothes from the day before and not in his pajamas. The jumper, which was attributing to his heat, lay unwanted next to the bathroom door).

His arms found their way around his abdomen as he began to feel nauseas again. Not necessarily in the mood to vomit again, he squeezed his eyes closed and tried to focus on staying as still as possible as to not upset his body.

~

Sherlock closed his eyes and folded his fingers below his chin, trying to comprehend everything he had just seen on Mycroft’s monitors. Absentmindedly, his feet began to slowly shift, causing the office chair he was sitting in to spin. Mycroft watched indifferently as his brother tried to respond to what he had just been shown.

“I’m afraid-” Sherlock began, his voice unusually shaky and low. “I’m afraid I don’t know what to say about this.”

“You had better come up with something quickly, Sherlock.” Mycroft looked grim. “He is becoming more susceptible to the same disease that you have suffered from. There is little time before Doctor Watson enters the clutches of alcoholism. And when he does, it will take a lot of effort to bring him back, almost as much as it did with you.” He began to stand up. “So tell me, Sherlock, what are you going to do about this?”

“I don’t know!” Sherlock yelled, looking rather defeated in the presence of his brother. “What do you think I should do?”

“He will listen to you. You must explain to him that by hurting himself he will most definitely hurt you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve tried that. He gets angry. He’s living in some sort of denial.”

“Then you must get him out of that state before it consumes him completely.” Mycroft pointed to the computer screen, which was replaying a scene where John had fallen from his bar stool in drunken hysterics.

Sherlock did not respond. He simply looked at the computer screen that his brother was pointing at. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the intensity of the lump that Sherlock had managed to get down his throat.

Mycroft sat down on the desk. “I will provide you two with whatever it is you may need,” he stated solemnly, his voice noticeably less harsh. “He needs your help, Sherlock. I can force him to stop this behavior, but any permanent changes or simple steps toward wellness will certainly be aided by you.”

“I’m aware.” Sherlock looked down at the large, plastic wheels on the chair. There were white scuff marks around the black rims of them.

“I know you think highly of Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said in almost a whisper. “I know how fond you are of him. And I do believe that you both have changed each other in beneficial ways. Perhaps some circumstances that may or may not have been able to be avoided have contributed to this current catastrophe, but we must work to fix this before it escalates out of control.”

“To the point where you must put him away as you did to me,” Sherlock interjected.

“I did that because you were not responding to the help that I had provided you with in my own home. Hopefully, John will not be as stubborn as you were.”

~

John had decided to get up off of the cold, tiled bathroom floor after he had not gotten sick for some time. He grabbed one of the paper cups provided for the coffee maker and filled it with water from the tap. He sighed in relief as his esophagus was cleared of any remaining bile and the awful taste in his mouth began to dissipate.

He made his way into the main suite and over to the window. He opened the curtains, allowing the sunlight to stream into the room, illuminating every object and color. A few pedestrians walked by, but the sidewalks on the hotel’s side of the street were virtually empty.

He slid open the window and propped his arms on the windowsill. John stuck his head out into the fresh air and looked down at the pavement. His chest felt so heavy, and among the ache he could feel his heart expanding and contracting against his lungs. It pained him with every beat. He sighed exasperatedly in a vain attempt at easing the tension that formed around his lungs. He felt like bawling.

His room was on the third floor. A drop from that height would mangle him enough that he would likely die on the scene. He was probably so heavy that he wouldn’t even notice when he hit the ground…

And as soon as that though finished, John abruptly pulled back into the room, slammed the window shut, drew in the big curtains, and sat down on the bed. He noticed that he had begun to shake, and then he realized that he had begun to cry. He laid back against the mattress with his hands over his face and tried with all of his available efforts to forget about what he had just done.

~

John had hastily showered and changed into the first clean set of clothes that he could find in his suitcase. He could have probably benefited from giving himself a shave or possibly cleaning his teeth, but he decided he looked well enough to venture into the outside world from just a shower and a change. He didn’t think it was worth it to spend so much time on all of the extra details, especially not when he was on his self-appointed break. He grabbed his wallet, room key, and mobile before he left.

He came back to his room about a half an hour later with a white, plastic shopping bag that had been stamped with the words “Thank You” several times. The bottles inside the bag clattered against each other as John set them down on the nightstand. He reached down into the bag and pulled out the six-pack that he had purchased and took hold of one of the bottles. The cap popped off easily between his fingers.

“Let’s see if this works,” John muttered to himself before tilting his head back and taking in several gulps from the bottle.

He was left panting from the sheer number of times he had swallowed his beer, but sure enough, a soft, gentle, warm feeling had begun to take over his chest in the place of the heaviness. John placed his hand over his heart, but he no longer felt the ache as it pumped his blood. The leftover symptoms from his hangover that morning also began to disappear.

“Ah…” He felt himself smiling. “Thank god…” He then took more swigs from the bottle.

~

By that afternoon, John had cleared his way through the six pack, and the empty bottles lay strewn across the bed and the floor. An empty bag of crisps lay on one of the pillows, while a half-empty one sat on John’s lap as he continued to eat from it.

The telly was on to some home-shopping network that was trying to get viewers to purchase an average tuber ware set that the spokesperson was trying to pass off as a big deal. John was really paying more attention to the crisps, but he did like the background noise as he ate. It almost felt like there was someone in the room with him.

He used his sleeve to wipe excess oil and salt away from his mouth. His lips were chapped due to the weather, and the oil and salt stung as they made their way into the folds of his lips as he ate, but he only cleaned his face because he didn’t like the wet feeling they gave his cheeks.

Soon after the program changed to a new product, another empty bag of chips joined the other one on the pillow beside John.

~

By nightfall, the heavy ache had reclaimed control of his entire body. He was bedridden; he had no motivation to get up. The sheets were warm, and the bed was soft, but he could not manage to shake the cold feeling that had swept over him. John wanted to sleep so badly, but he could not seem to get comfortable enough to go to sleep, nor could he shake the vivid, accusatory thoughts that kept crossing his mind.

He knew he could have saved them. There was always something he could have done. His feelings towards Mary had changed over the course of their marriage, but when she had died, he had still respected her. He respected her for what she had done for him after he had lost Sherlock and because she was supposed to be the mother of his unborn child. He should have done more to save them both.

He managed to summon enough energy to grab his cell off of the nightstand, where a bottle containing liquid of a stronger caliber was sitting upright in the plastic bag. His fingers shook, and his eyes grew blurry with unshed tears as he dialed Sherlock’s number. As soon as he had accomplished this, he held his phone to his ear and prayed.

“Please pick up,” he pleaded silently. John felt like he could no longer breathe. He no longer felt alive. He wondered if he actually was. “Please, Sherlock. Please help me.”

After a few rings, Sherlock’s voicemail answered instead of him.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John said in the most normal voice he could muster after the tone had finished. “I was just wondering if I could- you know, maybe talk to you about something. Um, I know you’re probably busy, so, uh, call me back whenever you can... and I’m sorry about yesterday. Thanks.”

John sighed and hung up. He threw his mobile onto the already cluttered bed and grabbed the bottle of gin. He threw the plastic bag onto the floor and examined the bottle. He wondered whether or not to indulge or to wait for Sherlock’s call. But, knowing Sherlock, John figured it was going to be a long time before Sherlock was going to get around to calling him. He could text, but John admittedly wanted to hear Sherlock’s voice, and let him talk him through whatever was going on.

After staring at the gin’s beautiful luster for a moments in which his mobile gave no sound, John made his decision out of need. He examined the cork and wondered how on earth he was supposed to get it out of the bottle.


	8. When We Begin Our Descent (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. I am so sorry I didn't update last week. I got super busy, and plus I celebrate Thanksgiving, so I was also caught up with the holiday.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. By the way, this story has had over a thousand hits! Thank you!  
> My apologies once more for any mistakes.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

The sharp pitch of breaking glass filled the hotel room. Not even the explosions on the telly (he couldn’t remember what movie he had turned it on to) could drown out the blatant sounds of destruction that occurred every time one of the empty beer bottles stuck the wallpaper.

The dusty, jagged remains of two beer bottles lay scattered on the floor next to his suitcase. John turned the third one over in his hands, his fingers lazily tracing over the label. The bold font was hard to decipher, thanks to his drunken, hazy mind, and because of that, John decided that that bottle too must end up like the others. He threw the bottle against the wall. The bottle cracked in half as soon as it made contact with the drywall.

No doubt someone had heard all of the commotion he was making and had gone to down to management to complain. He didn’t really care. It didn’t necessarily matter to him if he got thrown out of the hotel. In fact, he wondered how he hadn’t been already.

The truth was, he hadn’t felt this great in months, and John was ready to milk these moments for all that they were worth. Every time one of those bottles hit the wall, he felt a little better. He felt in control. He was drunk. He was sweaty. He was crying. But oh, was he ever in control.

After throwing the fourth bottle, he found himself getting up from his bed and walking slowly over to where the pieces of broken glass were. His knees popped as he bent down onto the carpet, and soon his fingers were tracing over the jagged edges of the glass. He felt a sharp sting across his thumb, but he gave no cry- not even a grunt. He simply removed his hand and stared at the beads of blood that had gathered on a line of broken skin. Soon, those beads collected into one pool, and that pool became a small river of blood flowing down his hand and onto his wrist.

John sat back against the bed and cradled his wounded hand. Some of the blood got onto his shirt, but John did not care. He knew he should get up, clean the cut, and wrap it, but he decided he was too comfortable on the floor and did not have enough energy to go and clean it up. His limbs were slowly getting heavier and heavier, and a headache was beginning to bloom behind his eyes.

An empty bottle of gin rattled against the nightstand as John, feeling very light-headed, fell forward onto the carpet and fell asleep right next to the pile of broken glass.

 ~

The next day, John woke up on the floor with a throbbing shoulder and a stiff back. He thought about falling asleep there again, but then he remembered that he was due to return to 221b again at noon. Reluctantly, he got up and made his way over to the loo. He made quick work of dealing with his hand wound, which had worsened overnight. He took a quick, cold shower and scrubbed his teeth as best as he could in order to rid any traces of alcohol on his breath. Surely, when he returned to 221B and spoke to Sherlock, Sherlock would certainly smell it, if he hadn’t picked up on any other clues in John’s demeanor that would have indicated that he had been drinking.

He carefully gathered all of the broken shards and empty bottles and placed them into the trash bin. He quickly scribbled a note of apology about the mess and noise on the hotel stationary and left it on the mattress.  He pulled the handle out of his suitcase, set it to drag behind him and left his hotel room.

~

John, thankful that the door to the flat was open, set down his suitcase in the kitchen with a long sigh. Sherlock was in his chair, his fingers in their usual, folded position under his chin. He gave no indication that he knew John had returned, so John figured he must have been storming through his Mind Palace.

 _Good,_ John thought. _That gives me some time to do more cover-ups._

And John was just about to go up to his room, dispose of his sweaty clothes, and put on a jumper with longer sleeves so that he could cover up his hand when he heard someone speaking to him fro,m the sitting room.

“I got your voicemail. What happened?”

John turned around abruptly, careful to conceal any signs of being startled in his face. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock removed his hands from beneath his chin, cocked his head, and stared at John with his piercing, yet gorgeous eyes. “Don’t act that way with me, John… Please. Now tell me, what happened?”

John glanced down at his hand for a second before quickly looking back at his flat mate. Sherlock now knew that John was aware of what he was doing, and smirked, though John found it warm and inviting instead of mocking or even condemnatory.

“Uh- well, I-uh-“John debated between the options he had come up with for telling Sherlock what happened. Lying was out of the question. John knew the only thing he could do was tell the truth. The real question was how he was going to go about doing it.

“Broken glass,” John stated solemnly, as if to tell Sherlock that he should have deduced that earlier. In reality, he was trying to keep his composure, an act that was becoming harder as seconds passed as Sherlock began to seem more and more open.

Sherlock smile became a little brighter, and John knew he was about to dissect him based on what John had selectively told him. His face was illuminated with a genuine sense of friendliness, and his curls were glowing from the sunlight coming in through the windows.

“And how did you slice your hand open on broken glass?” Sherlock asked. He stood up and slowly began to walk over to John, who could not seem to look at him.

John felt his throat close up. _Might as well._ “I know you trusted me,” he managed. “And I’m sorry I failed you.” His eyes felt hot with tears.

Sherlock placed one of his hands on John’s shoulder. His thumb began to sweep back and forth across John’s shirt. “You drank.”

John nodded.

“How much?” Sherlock asked. His voice was low, serious even. “John, tell me. How much did you drink?”

John swallowed audibly. Tears began to fall down his cheeks. “Sorry,” he muttered as he wiped them away. “Um- yeah, a bottle of gin and a six pack.”

“All of it?” Sherlock asked, his eyes widening somewhat.

John nodded and wiped his face again. Looking down at his damp jumper sleeve, he added softly, “All I seem to be doing nowadays is cry.”

“Not counting what you drank at the bar, am I correct?”

John’s head snapped up at this. “How did you-“

“Mycroft called me into his office yesterday. We watched the entire event unfold over the CCTV cameras. I-“

Sherlock paused, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath. His actions were enough to make John even more nervous.

  _Sherlock never needs to compose himself… Well, he hasn’t had to in some time._

“John, I saw… and I am still witnessing things that I could have never believed possible- things that I really didn’t want to know could happen to you. Things that you have likely done before, and that were likely caused by me, or by situations that I have wrought.

“Mycroft and I discussed what part I should play in trying to get you through whatever problems you are facing. I was once in your position, and when my brother tried to offer me help, I refused, and it spiraled out of control to the point to where a majority of the latter part of my youth was spent in drug dens and rehabilitation centers. And even when I was in rehab, I never really tried to get well. I was in my late twenties when I decided to apply myself to the therapy being provided.

“I am telling you this now because I want to help you in any way that I can. I like to believe that I am the one human being on this planet that understands you the most, even if you are hard for me to read at times compared to other people. Mycroft has offered us a wide a variety of his resources that we get to choose from. We can do anything that you want-anything that you think will help.

“I am aware of how difficult this must feel, especially after everything that has transpired in the last year. You must feel so exhausted… But I am asking you to make this decision as a friend. As someone who-“ Sherlock removed his hand from John’s shoulder and looked away. “As someone who cares about you deeply. I am begging you to take the opportunity that you have been given.”

John’s lips quivered. He was on the verge of bursting into sobs. “You don’t understand me, Sherlock.”

“If you talked about it, then maybe-“

“No.” John sniffled. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve your efforts.”

Sherlock’s mouth flew open. “Don’t you ever say that again, John. I don’t want to hear it. You are worth this and so much more.  You don’t have to punish yourself this way. Please. Let. Me. Help. You.”

“Or what?!” John yelled, catching Sherlock off-guard and making him jump back. “What will you do if I refuse?”

“Are you really considering turning this down? John-“

“You are truly ignorant about some things, Sherlock!” John yelled. There was a burning sensation in his chest. His hand throbbed. “I am not a man who deserves to be healed. I wish you would just let this whole situation go.”

“I can’t watch you do this to yourself!” Now, Sherlock was also yelling and crying. “It would kill me just as fast it would kill you. Mycroft and I had hoped you wouldn’t be this stubborn. I suppose I have no choice now.”

John clenched his fists, realized what he had done, and then unclenched them. “What are you going to do?”

“John, I am issuing you an ultimatum. Either you stop this behavior and seek help for the issues you are facing, or I will leave 221B.”

He was shocked. “Y-You wouldn’t…”

“Mycroft will gladly provide room for me at his place. I may have trouble cooperating with my brother, but at least I have an idea of who he is. I have no clue who I am living with now. The John Watson that I knew was braver than this. He wouldn’t have let his circumstance defeat him. Even when he thought I was dead, he still persisted, even though he was completely crushed. I don’t know who this person is, now.”

_“…Fell in love with…”  Does he really mean-?_

“I don’t want you to leave,” John replied.

“Then accept what you have been given! Stop running away!”

“I CAN”T!” John’s cheeks had been made into waterfalls.

“THEN IT’S SETTLED!” Sherlock began to walk away from John, wiping his eyes. John had never seen him in such a sensitive state. “You’re breaking me apart, John! Call me when you want to take control of yourself.” He grabbed his coat, crossed the threshold of the flat, stood at the top stair for a moment, and then walked back in.

“One more thing: don’t bring Mrs. Hudson into this. If you want to drink your life away, don’t make that old woman take care of you. She shouldn’t have to wake up in the middle of the night to hear you retching. She shouldn’t have to take care of you while you’re hungover. She shouldn’t have to come home, find your alcohol-poisoned body on the floor, and call the ambulance to come and get you. You and I both know we have put her through a lot of grief. Don’t you dare make her life harder than it needs to be.”

And with that, Sherlock put on his coat and crossed the threshold once more. He did not stop at the top stair.

 


	9. When We Begin Our Descent (Part Three: Finale of the Descent)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I hope you all had a fantastic week.   
> I've really upped the ante with this one, so I hope you like it!  
> And as always, I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> Thanks!  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

John had been sitting on the kitchen floor leaning against the cabinets for what felt like an eternity. It had started to rain, and the wind beat the rain droplets violently against the windows in the sitting room, but John could not register their violent presence. His mind kept going back to Sherlock.

_Fell in love with…_

He was shocked; John would have never expected Sherlock to separate himself from him because of his habits. He had to admit that it did feel nice to have Sherlock’s concern openly directed towards him, but now, Sherlock was gone, and John himself had driven him away. To John, it felt like Sherlock had died all over again. Now, it was just him and the darkness that plagued his mind in 221B.

He had half-expected Sherlock to come back after an hour or so, but when Sherlock showed no signs of showing up, John knew Sherlock was not going to back away from what he had declared. Sherlock was at Mycroft’s place.

His knees and ankles ached from kneeling on the tiled floor, but that could not distract him from the ever-apparent, numbing ache that had intensified after Sherlock had left.

_I should have run after him,_ John thought to himself. _I never should have taken that break. I should have stayed here. I should have explained everything to him. I shouldn’t have snapped. I should have let him take care of me…_

_It doesn’t matter now, does it?_

A soft tapping came upon the open door to their part of the flat. A concerned Mrs. Hudson came inside without calling. Her face aged even more from sadness and sympathy when she saw him kneeling on the tiles.

“It appears it’s over,” John said, his voice sounding small in his own ears. “Sherlock’s left.”

“I know, dear. He told me.”

“You really shouldn’t be up here with me.”

“He told me that as well. He’s understandably hurt. But what he doesn’t realize is that I’m already hurt too.”

John looked away from her, unable to look into her soft, wrinkled eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know you think that, but John, I don’t believe that you are.” She put her hand over her mouth to keep a sob from escaping. “It truly is as bad as he says it is. It truly is worse than before.”

“Mrs. Hudson- “

“I won’t bother you. You can live like my husband did, and you can throw everything good that you have away. Just remember, you still owe me rent at the first of the month.”

**~ Three Days Later~**

John staggered up off of the wet floor, not really noticing the fact that his bar stool had landed on the floor as well. Barely able to lift his head up and keep it balanced on his neck, he slammed his fist against the stained bar.

“Another!” he croaked. As the bartender glared at him, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of notes, hoping that it would satisfy the man and allow him to finally get what he wanted, with or without the glare.

The other patrons gave him the same glares, but his overall vision was clouded and dizzying, let alone his peripheral. He stopped noticing them after the second night he had come to the pub, and he was becoming a bit of a regular. A woman sitting in a corner booth had her mobile out and was angling her camera to capture every little detail of his wild plight, but John was too far caught up in the atmosphere to care about potential Internet videos or scandalous newspaper articles.

He was no longer in the realm of the sane and the living; he had made it to a place where no human qualms could affect him, where no sinister thoughts or great bouts of sadness could reach him. And the sense of happiness that he was allowed to have felt satisfying enough, even though it was obviously fake, and the dark clutches of loneliness loomed on the horizon of his distorted, perfect reality to drag him down into the dungeons of himself.

**~Four Days Later~**

The brick wall offered him some support as he tried to regain his equilibrium. The night was dark and cold, and John could see a grey, thin cloud of fog flow out of his mouth every time he panted. The beads of sweat on his forehead became piercing ice cycles when the wind blew through the alley. His moans of discomfort bounced off the buildings, creating an echo as pitiful as he was.

Sure enough, the newspaper had run an article about his latest expeditions with liquor. The attention was off of Sherlock, and now the world was watching a show where John himself was in the spotlight, and boy, were they amused.

When John had read the article, he fell into hysterics and opened the window and threw the newspaper with such force that it broke the window of a cab parked on the street below. Why hadn’t Mycroft stopped it from being published? What sort of message was he trying to send him?

John’s stomach ached with that same tremendous force. Once his heart began to race even faster, he knew he had to brace himself. It wasn’t long before he lost his supper and the last few drinks that he had. When he was positive that he could lift up his head without becoming nauseous again, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and staggered out of the alley, blissfully unaware of the small amount of bile that had landed on his shoe.  

**~Five Days Later~**

After days of not receiving any phone calls back from him, Sarah finally gave in and told John that his position at the surgery was terminated. It boggled John a little, since Sarah had not fired him from his position after he had spent days out of work because of Sherlock’s death. Perhaps she had been informed of his current condition from the news and had decided it was best to keep an impeding alcoholic away from the patients, which seemed sound enough to John, even though he had not even been clocking in recently.

Except, even though he had more time to drink now, he also had no way of getting enough money to pay for them. Every time he thought about the nest egg in his bank account, he was engulfed in a wave of worry. He had no idea whether he was going to have enough money to pay the extra share of the rent, since he knew he actually had to pay for the entire flat now, let alone buy enough alcohol to get him through the week. He needed his distractions both mentally and physically.

**~Two Days Later~**

He sat upright in his bed and stared at the wall, hoping that such a mundane task would distract him from the uncontrollable shaking in his limbs. His t-shirt was drenched in sweat, and his nose and cheeks had turned a shade of red that he saw in his reflection whether he was drunk or sober.

He had told himself he would stop. He had told himself that today was going to be the day when he gave it all up, least he become like Harry or even his father. He had decided that he was going to get off of this crazy train and clean himself up. He was going to quit. He was going to call Sherlock, and John was going to see him again.

And now he realized how much off a fool he was. He did not yet have the willpower to completely stop, since he was beginning to make an even deadlier habit out of it, and now his body was progressing into a state of dependency. He no longer got as drunk as he used to, but he still came down from his alcoholic high just as fast and as hard each time. He would have to ween himself off of it.

So, he got up and rushed to the liquor cabinet, feeling somewhat guilty for the speed in his gait. He had managed to break Sherlock’s lock off of the cabinet earlier that week when he made a vow to at least not drink in public anymore, and now there were various bottles of all different types of liquors. John knew he needed something a little lighter than normal, so he grabbed a half-empty bottle of cheap wine and popped the cork off.

His hurried actions were loud enough that Mrs. Hudson could hear him rummaging around downstairs in her own flat. With tears in her eyes, the old woman turned up the music on her kitchen radio and tried to pour every bit of her attention into the lasagna she was making.

**~One Week Later~**

John had no clue where he was, nor why the world was spinning on its axis more quickly than usual, nor why everyone was speaking at much higher decibels than would be normal for human conversation, nor if he had been drinking that day or not, nor what time it even was.

But he did register the woman and the two men who had gathered around him, as well as bits and pieces of what they were saying.

The woman (she sounded a little bit younger than him…?) had a steady hold on his shoulders, and she lead him to the ground.

“The… AMBULANCE IS ON…its way, SIR,” the woman said.  John cried out in pain and covered his ears.

One of the men stepped forward and kneeled on the ground besides him. John recognized his blue-green eyes, sharp cheekbones, and product-laden curls right away.

“She’lock- “John reached out towards him. Sherlock grabbed his arms in order to keep him from falling forward.

“Yes, John… IT’S me…” Sherlock replied.

“Everthin’s sssooo loud. She’lock…. Make ih stop.” John rested his head against one of Sherlock’s outstretched arms.

“I know… HELP’S ON… the WAY.”

“Mmm… Head hurts… Stomach hurts…” John felt bile rising in his throat.

“He’s… GOING TO get sick,” the other man said. John knew that voice, but he could not remember who it belonged to or what the owner looked like. He thought it was someone important…?

Sherlock and the younger woman quickly moved out of the way, and John leaned forward slightly and got rid of his stomach’s contents.

“That’s it… BREATHE, John, BREATHE…” Sherlock began to rub small circles on John’s back. The woman pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the saliva that gotten on John’s chin.

Sirens could be heard in the distance. They were quickly coming closer and closer. John groaned in response.

“She’lock… ‘M so woozy… Can’t focus…”

The sirens were near. Soon, John saw flashing sequences of yellow and red lights. The last things he remembered before black out were Sherlock’s cries for him to stay conscious, the overwhelming feeling that the lights gave him, and the angry yells of the other man directed towards the paramedics.

**~ … ~**

John awoke to the steady beat of a heart monitor and the blinding, almost holy-white glow of the hospital’s lights. There was not a single cell in his body that had not been inflicted with some sort of pain.

With an extraordinary amount of strength, John managed to push himself up higher on the cheap pillows of the hospital bed. He then discovered that he had been connected to an IV, and that Sherlock was seated in a plastic chair by his bed. They both stared into each other’s eyes (Sherlock looked absolutely relieved to see John awake) for a moment before John decided to break the silence.

“I think I have a problem,” John said quietly.

Sherlock nodded, his eyebrows drawn together in concern and worry.

“Why did you come to get me?” John asked.

“I thought that if I left, then maybe it would be enough to get you to own up to your problems,” Sherlock replied. “I see now that I was wrong. I pushed you in the wrong direction. We saw you staggering around on the CCTV cameras, and I decided we had to take you to the hospital before it was too late.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself a dependency.”

Sherlock nodded, sniffling. “Mycroft had a few men watching you, but they couldn’t intervene. You drank every day for the past three weeks, and I had something to do with that. And… I’m so sorry for hurting you again. I shouldn’t have left. I should have sequestered you in that flat- “

“It’s alright, Sherlock.”

“I failed you, John! I- I have no excuse. Ever since you started living with me, I-I’ve put you into these _horrible_ situations. I kept thinking about the Work, and then I kept thinking about how to get us out of the criminal mess that I had gotten into-”

John put his hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “Sherlock, I chose this. I chose to drink every day. I tried to stop, and I couldn’t. Everything I did was because I could not control myself and because I felt lost and alone.

“I don’t want to abandon you. All I want is for you to be well again.”

John nodded. “That’s what I want too.”

“I-I meant what I said.” Sherlock folded his hands on top of the bed. “I do love you. And, I’m sorry if it’s not really-“

“I know, Sherlock. And believe me, after everything that we both have been through, I’d be crazy if I waited to admit my feelings to you any longer. I love you too.”

Sherlock was floored. A look of happiness and shock crossed his features. “I- have no words…”

“When you were gone all those years ago, I thought my life was over. I had no idea how I was supposed to carry on. I simply floated along. Days melted into weeks, weeks into months, and so on. Until I met Mary, who was almost a female version of you. I could tell you were someone special after that first case, and after a few more, I realized how addicted I truly was to the rush of the cases _and_ the idea of us. I thought I could have some sort of peace again if I dated Mary, and I convinced myself that I was in love with her.

“I started drinking because of the scars that she had left, which brought back so many harsh moments from the past. I-I am ashamed of what I have done. Through it all, you were always there for me, or you were fighting to get back to me. But when you were gone these past few weeks, I completely lost it.”

Sherlock’s eyes were filled with tears. “I knew you were special, too. I knew I might have found someone when you shot that cabbie and saved my life for the first time.”

“Do you still want me?” John asked. “Addiction and all?”

“Of course. My addiction never stopped you from loving me, did it?”

John managed a smile. “Come here. I’m in pain, so I’m afraid I can’t quite come to you- you lazy bum.”

Sherlock gladly got up and wrapped his arms around John, who was only strong enough to gently touch Sherlock’s back.

“It’s going to be difficult,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear.

“I know,” John said. “I’m feeling the beginning right now. But I think I have my light at the end of this tunnel.”

“Mycroft wants to have a few words with you after this.”

John laughed softly. “When has Mycroft restrained from giving his input?”


	10. When It's Time to Face the Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I know I haven't updated in a while, and I'm sorry about that. I've... well, it hasn't been easy recently. I feel like I've given that excuse a lot, but please believe me, it's been rough. And I haven't had a lot of time to write. I hope that 2016's going to be better. If it reflects in my work, I apologize. Thank you for your understanding.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> I hope you enjoy this.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

It was not long before the peace- the momentary distraction that their confessions had provided them- was disturbed, and it was rather out of necessity than by chance or a willing choice. Sherlock, with a stroke of the hand and a promise to be back soon, went out to inform the hospital staff of John’s awakening, while John wrapped the cheap bed sheets tighter around his aching body and tried to stay rooted in reality- well, he tried to accept that this _was_ reality.

Everything felt like a freakish, detailed dream. It was as though the dream itself was sentient and also devious enough to concoct such a devilishly real world of which John had no control over. He wished that his life was really a dream and that he could wake up in his own bed in his own room if he concentrated hard enough.

At least he had Sherlock back again after what seemed like the millionth time that they had been separated. And now Sherlock was going to remain by his side, to help him navigate the dark maze that his memories and his actions constructed, and to offer up his love every step of the way and even more so once the hardest part of the journey towards wellness was over. And Sherlock had even apologized to him for being an idiot for what also seemed like the millionth time.

Perhaps he could suffer the dream a little longer if he could regain who he was once more.

Sherlock returned with an equally tall, thin man in a white lab coat. Sherlock quickly resumed his place in the plastic chair at John’s bedside.

John looked the man up-and-down. He couldn’t have been any younger than forty, given the emerging crow’s feet and the grey speckles at the roots of the man’s hair.

“Glad to see you’re awake, Doctor Watson,” the man said. “Name’s Doctor Richardson.” When neither Sherlock nor John offered any other interaction besides their gazes, Dr. Richardson sighed softly and continued. “As it turns out, we just received some of the lab results from the tests we ran when you were first brought here. And I actually have quite a bit of good news to report.”

John looked at Sherlock quizzically.

“You’ve been out for three days,” Sherlock murmured. John nodded and turned back to Richardson.

“Well, Doctor Watson, it seems you’ve rather lucked out,” Doctor Richardson began. “There are no signs of cardiomyopathy or atrial or ventricular fibrillation. Your blood pressure is also normal for a man your age and is also coherent with your medical history. There were also no detections of cirrhosis or alcoholic hepatitis, which you narrowly avoided, nor was there any indication of kidney damage. I noticed you had a family history of anemia- “

 _Mom,_ John thought. _Wonder what she would think about all of this._

“-so I went ahead and ran a CBC. However, it appears that your hemoglobin levels remained relatively unaffected by your alcohol consumption.”

John looked at Sherlock and gave him a small smile. Sherlock returned it, but the smile quickly faded, and Sherlock looked away, grabbing John’s hand even tighter.

“I also spoke to a Mr. Mycroft Holmes,” Doctor Richardson continued, and Sherlock gave off a short, quiet grunt at the sound of his brother’s name, though it was a sign of spite. “I gave him my recommendations per request. However, I was also instructed not to be the one to discuss any other treatment outside of this hospital with you. As I understand it, Mr. Holmes has it under control.”

Doctor Richardson fiddled with one of the buttons on his lab coat while still keeping his eyes trained on John and Sherlock. John assumed that the encounter that Doctor Richardson had with Mycroft did not exactly bade as well for him as he wished to let on. John understood how intimidating meeting someone with near god-like power and inside influence among the flesh. Mycroft was, as any Homes was apt to be, rudely polite, intimidating, and virtually unnoticeable out of context.

“Well, that about covers it,” Richardson announced. “If you should need anything, give us a ring.”

Doctor Richardson promptly left the room, Sherlock and John’s eyes following him as he made his course into the hallway. As the door clicked shut behind him, Sherlock and John looked at each other. John, feeling relieved at the results, managed to give Sherlock a small and reassuring smile. Sherlock found that he could not return it.

~

It was not long before Sherlock began to hear inconsistent tapping against the hallway floor and the footsteps trademark of a person with a spectacularly large gait. John, who was sore, groggy, and nauseous, did not pick up on these noises, and Sherlock was glad. So, when the tapping stopped just outside of John’s hospital room, Sherlock untangled his fingers from John’s and left his new-found boyfriend to rest.

Mycroft was leaning against the opposite wall when Sherlock emerged from the room. His suit was clean and pressed, as always, and his arms were crossed in defense. Sherlock, whose own suit was a wrinkly mess, was too worried to give mind to Mycroft’s employed tactics.

The two of them stood there for a few seconds, not really wanting to strike up conversation, until Sherlock got the balls to speak first.

“You’re sending him away.”

Mycroft cocked his head to one side. “You seem surprised. Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t think about it?”

“Well, yeah, maybe I did,” Sherlock replied, venom suddenly dripping from his voice. “I thought, given our discussion in the waiting room, you would be a little more lenient towards us?”

“I’ve known about the sentiments that have existed between the two of you for some time.” Mycroft unraveled his arms. His umbrella was leaning against the wall beside him, and Mycroft instinctively picked it up. “Just because you now had the courage to admit it to each other does not grant you special privileges. It took rehabilitation to get you back on track, and I agree with Doctor Richardson in that it would be the best course of action for John as well.”

“Doctor Richardson is an idiot!” Sherlock yelled. “You saw him! You saw the same things I did! Man’s a caffeine junkie himself! Premature aging due to stress- unnaturally jittery hands…” Sherlock’s shoulders began to bob up and down with each exasperated breath.

“Calm down,” Mycroft ordered. He waited until Sherlock begrudgingly drew in a few deep breaths to appease him. “If you could possibly have a better course of action, I would be willing to make an exception for whatever that plan might be- if it meets my standards.”

“Your standards are impossible,” Sherlock spat. He realized how immature he sounded, so he took another deep breath to keep his composure. John’s state was slowly unraveling his usual demeanor, and the last thing he needed was for Mycroft to think that Sherlock could no longer handle such stressful situations. “I- I want to be with John. I want to accompany him through this process. I love him. He loves me. And I’ve been through this before. I want him to be comfortable, and I can’t seem to tear myself away from him. I- “He sighed.

Mycroft reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock gazed at his brother’s hand before continuing.

“I don’t want him to feel like he’s a burden,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want him to think that his wellness is a burden on us.”

Mycroft, who had quickly removed his hand and who seemed almost shocked at what he had just done, looked down at his umbrella. His lips were pursed- a Holmesian sign of deep thought. “If those are your desires, what do you want to do about them?”

“…Let him stay at Baker Street. You can employ anyone that you want. You can check on us anytime that you want. Just… Just let him stay with me.”

Both men heard John retching in the other room and turned in the direction of the awful noise.

“You should go back in there,” Mycroft said, his voice low.

“Will you at least consider it?”

“I already have. I can keep a closer eye on him if you can keep him confined to your flat. But don’t blow it.”

Sherlock nodded and hastily reentered John’s hospital room. Mycroft pulled out his mobile and began to text furiously. A variety of arrangements were going to have to be made in order for John to be brought back to life away from an institution.

~

His newfound lover was a disheveled mess. His skin had become yellow and splotchy; it hung loosely from his frame and felt clammy to Sherlock’s touch. Beads of sweat had settled into the wrinkles of his face and into his hospital gown. His eyes- bloodshot and glistening in pink- were laden with heavy, purple bags, and they darted to and fro as if John were looking around, but they carried not the light that Sherlock had grown to love- the light that Sherlock had secretly called his home. And not to mention the dismal, misshapen state of his hair….

Sherlock grabbed John’s leathery hand and held it a little tighter this time.

“Have you talked to Mycroft yet?” John asked softly, his throat still burning from stomach acid.

Sherlock nodded. “I just did.”

John shut his eyes. “What is he going to do?”

“He’s going to let you stay in the flat.”

“… He is?”

“That’s right.” Sherlock began to trace his thumb over John’s knuckles. “We’ve reached an agreement on how we’re going to treat you. Mycroft is personally overseeing this whole… operation. He’ll be checking up on us frequently. By now, he’s probably hired a small medical faculty ready to help with your ordeal. No doubt he’s got a few psychiatrists lined-up as well.”

“Mycroft’s acting awfully nice…” John replied, his suspicion evident in his words.

Sherlock shifted in his chair. “He knows we don’t want to be separated at the moment, and I believe he doesn’t want the both of us in a place that his network can’t really influence. He’ll be far less lenient if one of us screws this up.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.” John straightened up in bed.

Sherlock bent down and rested his head against the back of John’s hand. “I don’t know what I would have done had you been hurt from this,” he whispered.

“Richardson said everything was fine.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Sherlock replied, lifting his head. “Do you how many people end up in morgues because of alcohol-related incidents? You could have been killed. You could have been robbed. You could have been kidnapped. You could have been raped. And I wouldn’t have been there.” He shook his head. “Nothing did happen, and you were being watched-”

“Hey, come on now. Don’t start crying on me.”

Sherlock used his shirt sleeve to dab his eyes. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been much self-control recently.”

John freed his hand from Sherlock’s grip and began stroking Sherlock’s hair. “Neither have I.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years everyone. And happy "SheSpsh" Day.


	11. When We Are Pulled from the Wreckage (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. We're right on schedule, this week! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Thank you for your continued support. It means a lot. I've been more productive recently, despite everything.I even managed to write a new one-shot.  
> That being said, we're about to get into some pretty sticky stuff. Buckle up, my friends! :D  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

Mycroft had arranged for John’s release from the hospital later that afternoon, much to the annoyance of Richardson, and for transportation back to their flat.

As soon as John had climbed into the back seat of the sleek, black car, he rested his head against the window. He was sweating profusely, and two migraines had settled into the back of each of his eyes. The cold glass felt amazing against his temples, but the relief the glass provided was soon thwarted, as Sherlock climbed into the back seat and closed the door behind him, causing the entire vehicle to rock. John subsequently groaned, removed his head, and began to rub his temples in a vain attempt at finding that relief again.

“What’s happening?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and his eyes trained on John’s.

John removed his fingers from his temples and rested his hands against his lap. “Nothing that shouldn’t be expected,” John murmured.

The car slowly began to move. Sherlock reached over and put John in his seatbelt, then sat back and secured himself in his own. Feeling a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his face, John took the back of his hand and wiped the putrid liquid from his brow.

“Give it here.”

John’s head snapped back to Sherlock. “What?”

“Your hand, give it here.”

John obliged.

Sherlock held John’s arm out so that he could examine his hand. John watched as he fingers bent and convulsed. He tried to straighten his hand, but he found that made the shaking worse. Sherlock moved his grip from John’s forearm to his shaking hand. With his frim but gentle grip, Sherlock clasped John’s shaking hand in his own.

“This will go away in a few days,” Sherlock murmured. “But it’s going to progressively get worse.”

John nodded. “I know.”

Sherlock let go of John’s hand as the car jostled as it crossed over a speedbump. Pain rocked John’s abdomen at the sudden movements, and he wrapped both arms around his stomach and moaned. Sherlock, sensing what was sure to happen next, pulled out a small, plastic bucket from beneath the seat, which Mycroft had alerted him of before John had been released.  John snatched it from him and held it close.

It was not long before John’s mouth began to salivate, and soon he was retching into the bucket. Sherlock placed one hand on John’s shoulder as he emptied his insides.

“There. Breathe. Breathe. This will all be over soon.”

“I KNOW, DAMMIT!” John yelled, causing Sherlock to jump back. He sighed, realizing how easily he had snapped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lose control like that.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment. “You don’t have to apologize.” His gaze shifted to the bucket. “Would you like for me to get rid of that for you?”

John too looked at the bucket before nodding and handing the bucket over to Sherlock. In turn, Sherlock opened the glass partition and handed the bucket to the man in the front passenger’s seat, who received it quickly and carefully. The man handed Sherlock a cold water bottle, which Sherlock passed to John, who opened it and sipped of it gladly. Sherlock closed the partition and pulled yet another bucket out from the beneath the seat.

“How many of those do you have?” John asked quietly and jokingly, even managing a small smile.

“Four,” Sherlock stated. “That’s my current record, according to Mycroft. He used to drive me home from the hospital all the time. I hardly remember any of those instances, though. He told me that my record for most times vomiting in his car in a single ride is… four. We figured you would handle the situation better…”

John grabbed the newest bucket and set it beside him. “That’s thoughtful of you- of him.”

Sherlock, not really wanting to further that conversation at the moment, looked out the window as they were passing a pub. “Your urges,” he said solemnly.

“What?”

“Your urges.” Sherlock looked back at him. “How bad are they?”

John took another sip from his water bottle. His throat was still burning from the bile. “I’m trying not to think about them. Would make everything a bit easier if I did drink, would it not.”

“You’ll gain control of them in time,” Sherlock replied. “After this, I believe you might have enough motivation to stay as far away from alcohol as possible.”

The car pulled into a stop. When John showed no signs of needing to get sick again from the impulse, Sherlock continued. “Whether it’s from the withdrawal, or me, only time will tell.”

~

The car pulled up against the curb outside of their flat. Sherlock got out first, went around the car to help John, and gave their thanks to the driver. Sherlock led John up the seventeen stairs and into the flat, where a tall, youthful, brunette woman was waiting for them.

“Ah, Daisy!” Sherlock exclaimed. “You’re here on time. Good.  John- this is Daisy. Daisy was an intern at the rehabilitation center when I was admitted there, and now she’s a psychiatrist. She’s been assigned to your case.”

John smiled at her. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor- “

“Call me Daisy,” she replied, returning a more genuine, less painful-looking smile. “Would you like to come and sit down?” she asked, motioning towards his arm chair.

John’s reply came in the form of him staggering to his chair and sighing as he eased himself into the cushions. Daisy sat down in Sherlock’s chair with a black medical bag.

 _Did she pull that thing out of thin air?_ John asked himself as Daisy rummaged through the medical bag, pulling out a stethoscope and a sphygmomanometer. She rolled up John’s sleeve and secured the polyester cuff around John’s upper arm. _I really am going nuts… Damn._

“Blood pressure’s a little high,” Daisy announced after she had released the tight cuff of the sphygmomanometer from John’s arm and had taken off her stethoscope.  She skimmed through a manila file that Sherlock had given her. “Shouldn’t be too much of a problem right now.”

 _Where the hell did he get that?_ John rubbed his temples.

“Right. Any other symptoms as of your release?”

“Sweating, headaches, shaking, nausea and vomiting,” Sherlock replied, answering for him, which John was thankful for. Sherlock gazed upon his lover for a moment. “And… Add confusion to the list as well.”

Daisy nodded. “I sent Erin to the chemist earlier. I’ll tell her what to get.” She pulled out a mobile from her back pocket. “We’ll stick to oral medication for the time being. I don’t want to advance to intravenous solutions unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the threshold carrying a tray of mugs. “I made tea,” she announced. “Two sugars for Sherlock. Milk for John. And three sugars and milk for Daisy.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said as he received his mug. His hands were still shaking, but he managed to take a few sips before setting it down on the tea table. Sherlock and Daisy watched him closely.

“I’m going to need a place to stay in the flat- in case I am needed during the night,” Daisy announced as-a-matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Hudson chirped up at this. “There’s extra space in the basement. It’s a little damp down there, but some of the rooms are fine. That is, if there’s no room up here.”

“John and I will be staying in my room,” Sherlock replied. “You can stay in John’s old room.”

“That will suffice.” Daisy took a long gulp from her mug. “Lovely tea, Mrs. Hudson. And thank you for offering the basement.”

Mrs. Hudson huffed and went to leave. “Well, you can’t blame me for trying to get someone into that flat- even if it was temporary.”

~

Diazepam. Generically speaking, Valium. Erin, a built woman with beautifully-dyed blue hair, had returned to 221B with a small, orange bottle filled with tiny, pink tablets of the drug. Daisy made him take two of the tablets as soon as Erin had arrived with them.

While the medicine began to take effect, Daisy and Erin made small talk. Every so often, instead of dismissing the tedious act of conversing about nothing, Sherlock would offer up what little opinion he had on certain subjects (i.e. how beautiful London was this time of year), since he believed it would be good for John if he was trying to behave in a somewhat socially acceptable way, and since he knew Daisy well-enough to not feel uncomfortable talking openly. John, as a medical professional himself, knew the real reason they were trying to be open around him: to establish trust. Because, after his detox was over, Daisy’s real work was going to begin: getting John to choose to cooperate through therapy.

John had to admit to himself. He was beginning to like Daisy a lot more than he had like Ella.

After all of the meaningless talking points that they could conjure up had been discussed, Sherlock decided to excuse himself to the kitchen to make dinner. Erin was quick to join him.

 _Sherlock’s out of his element,_ John thought. _Or… is this his element? Ah, who gives a damn._

He looked down at his hands, and he found that he could move his fingers with relative ease, as well as keep his arms in a straight position without them convulsing. He also felt less irritable than when he arrived.

_Still a little sweaty, though._

“Tablets are beginning to work. I take it?”

Startled, John quickly looked at Daisy. “Uh- y-yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, they are.”

Daisy smiled. “You’ve probably heard this a thousand times.” She looked in the direction in the kitchen. John watched as she (subconsciously) folded her hands. “But you should really see the way he looks at you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You should’ve seen Sherlock when he had been admitted to the facility. I’d never seen a man appear so despondent. Of course, I was only an intern- “

“Should you, uh, really be discussing that with me?” John interrupted.

“You are Sherlock’s primary care physician, are you not? Professionally, I could be giving you pieces of your patient’s medical history for future use. Besides, I’m still bound by the responsibility to respect his privacy.”

John was in no state to come up with a comeback to that. _No wonder Sherlock likes her._

“He was a mess. It took him years before he completed the program. It warms my heart to see how far he has come from where he once was. And a lot of that, was thanks to you.”

John didn’t know what to say. _Perhaps it’s not my place to say anything._

“I think that you both have secured someone special. “She looked back at John. “Which is why I would like Sherlock to take an active involvement in this process.” She paused. “Well, it’s likely he would have helped even if I didn’t allow him to. But I think it would be beneficial if he did.”

~

 _“Dinner’s ready!”_ Erin called from the kitchen.

Daisy stood up from Sherlock’s chair. “Are you hungry enough to eat?” she asked him.

He nodded and slowly got up himself. “I- guess I should try, shouldn’t I?”

~

The rest of the night passed without much cause for record. All four of them ate supper (which was quite frankly terrible, since Sherlock had tried to prepare a majority of it) in quiet. Erin administered the tablets to John, who took them gladly, since his extremities were starting to convulse once more. John threw up a few more times, and Sherlock was faster to his side than either Daisy or Erin. Erin went home soon afterwards.

At around ten o’clock that night, Sherlock and John retired to Sherlock’s bedroom and Daisy to John’s. After they had readied themselves for bed and had been laying in the dark together for a while, Sherlock began to speak.

“I wish I could have spent my first night in bed with you under better circumstances,” Sherlock whispered. He turned over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “Instead of watching you to make sure you don’t do anything foolish.”

“You can’t sleep, can you?”

Sherlock huffed. “No.”

“Neither can I. I feel groggy, but I can’t sleep.”

“…John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“If you should happen to need me sometime tonight-”

“ _I know,_ Sherlock.”

“Humph. Very well, then.”

Sherlock turned back over onto his side, but his eyes remained open. His mind was churning, coming with lots of potential outcomes- not all of them good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part of the story is going to start off slowly, but it going to increase in pace pretty soon.


	12. When We Are Pulled From the Wreckage (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. I'm posting this right before midnight! Thank you for all of your support. I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> Thanks.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

It was half-past midnight when John began to stir. He hadn’t exactly fallen asleep; he had just laid motionless as he fell in and out of a feverish dream. He hallucinated a tall, dark billowy figure at the foot of Sherlock’s bed- it’s hollow, white eyes glaring at him unrelentingly. He had not moved or cried out in terror, since not only was Sherlock “sleeping” next to him and his pride in the way of making a scene, but his limbs were also heavy and his throat growing more dry as each bead of sweat made its way down his temple. He took solace in the fact that the shadow was standing still.

But, when the shadow finally made a move, when it finally extended its clawed hand towards him, John, in a fit of horror and adrenaline, jumped from beneath the bedsheets. He fled to the nearest corner of Sherlock’s room. Immediately, he realized his mistake. He would now have to reach for the door handle- the key to his only exit- without provoking another, quicker attack from the shadow. His hand crept slowly along the wall, his mind chastising him for abandoning his training.

Sherlock was now up- a look of sheer fright on his face as well, but not from the presence of the shadow.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, though it came out as more of a croak. “Get back! It’s going to get you!” John would have certainly wanted to suffer the wrath and the demonic claws of the shadow than to let Sherlock fall into its grasp. And Sherlock had, unfortunately, stopped right in the path of the shadow.

“John- “Sherlock held out his hands in an attempt to ease John’s tension. “Whatever you’re seeing- it isn’t there.”

John shook his head. “You’ve got to get out of the way!! He’s moving slowly. You can escape!”

“DAISY!!!” Sherlock called, not keeping his eyes off of John. “John- you must listen to me- “

“Enough!” John cried. He quickly found the strength to move from the corner as the shadow began to wrap its glistening claws around Sherlock’s shoulder. John pushed Sherlock over onto the bed and looked the shadow in its eyes. The more he stared the demon down, the more he actually began to notice his reflection in the white orbs of the shadow’s eyes.

The bedroom door swung open, and Daisy rushed into the bedroom.

“You will not TOUCH THEM!” John yelled at the shadow.

Daisy and Sherlock began to communicate with each other, but to John, their voices were muffled, almost unrecognizable. His sole focus was the beast that had to nerve to intrude on the peace that had existed between him and Sherlock whilst they were together, that had the nerve to hold him captive whilst he lay with his newfound partner. He felt hands- fleshy, human hands take hold of his shoulders and begin to pull him backwards.

“Get… out!” John gasped. The edges of his vision were darkening- his focus growing blurrier. The shadow, finally realizing that it was no longer welcome at 221B Baker Street, began to wither away into wisps of thick, black smoke. Its eyes clenched in pain, and it gave out an ear-splitting wail in defeat- its mouth opening into a deep, white abyss.

John smiled at his victory. The human hands caught him as his vision completely darkened and he lost the strength to keep himself awake.

~

“Ugh…”

“John- John? Can you hear me?”

John rubbed his eyes before he opened them, discovering that he had been laid up onto the couch, the Union Jack pillow beneath his head. Sherlock was kneeling on the floor beside him, and Daisy, clad in matching flannel pajamas, was sitting near his hips on the small stretch of couch that his body did not occupy.

“Sherlock…” _The shadow. Is the shadow still there?_ “What happened?”

“You were hallucinating, and then you fainted,” Sherlock said, relief evident in his voice.

“Oh… Well, that explains a lot,” John replied.

“When did the apparition appear?” Daisy asked. John noticed her hands were folded in her lap securely, giving her an air of poise, but her voice was so soft- so inviting…She had seen this scenario many times in her line of work.

“I don’t know,” John said. “It had been there for a while, but I can’t recall when it had initially appeared. I could only move once it had started to move.”

Daisy nodded, looking towards her medical bag, which was sitting in an easily-accessible place on the table. She would want to write a few things down for record, but that could certainly wait. She looked back at John. “Were you able to sleep at all, before the hallucination started?” She already had an idea of what the answer would be.

“No,” John answered quickly and quietly.

Daisy nodded and got up from her place on the couch. “Very well.” She went over to her medical bag and opened it. “I have a few pills on hand. Low dosage- just enough to get you a few hours of sleep. I imagine we might have to wake you up a few times, if you don’t wake up by yourself.”

John felt his face grow warm. “Why would you need to do that?”

“You’ve just tried to stand up to a specter,” Daisy answered. “You’re going through withdrawal. You’re going to have some nightmares- ghastly, I’m afraid.”

John was going to bite back with something else to make his inhibitions about taking more drugs, yet Sherlock squeezed John’s hand a little tighter, causing John to remember his place, and the fact that Daisy was still on his side.

_Curve your tongue, John._

“Right,” John said, as Daisy popped open the orange pill bottle. “Sherlock, could get me a glass of water?”

For once, Sherlock nodded and got it without so much as a word. John took the opportunity to sit up. He stared at the floor as Sherlock filled a glass with water in the kitchen. He came back with a clear glass half-full of the liquid. John took it from him and the pill from Daisy and down the pill in one swallow.

~

John was awoken a couple of times after that by visions of deaths he had long since put behind him, but the effects of the medicine made him groggy, so he was pulled back into the embrace of sleep shortly after waking up. When John would wake up, it would jostle the bed, and Sherlock, though he had not been asleep himself, would wonder whether or not his lover needed him to intervene.

Eventually, the medicine cleared his system, and John woke up slowly and softly, the paralyzed-with-worry form of Sherlock still under the duvet alongside him. His t-shirt, drenched in sweat from his nightmares and alcohol deprivation, had practically become one with his own skin. Feeling utterly repulsed by the layer of grime, John got up to change out of his pajamas, and then he realized that he was in Sherlock’s room, and all of his clothes were upstairs.

“Just use mine,” Sherlock mumbled from his bedsheet cocoon on the bed. “You should be able to fit into some of my clothes… Try the sweatshirts.”

John, happy that Sherlock was awake and that he was going to be able to carry clothes with him to the shower, looked around at the dresser and then towards the closet, trying to figure out where-

“Closet. In the back, behind the suit jackets.”

“Ah.” John walked into the closet, and sure enough, he found a rather loose, grey sweatshirt in the very back, barely holding on to its corresponding clothes hanger. “Thanks!”

“Mmm.”

“Erm, I’m going for a shower!”

“Keep the door unlocked.” Sherlock slowly began to unravel himself from his cocoon.

~

Fog had collected on the mirror. The scalding hot water continued to beat the bottom of the porcelain tub and the shower curtain. Steam filled the air. John, still dry and grimy, sat by the open toilet, shivering.

He had simply been turning the knob on the shower handle when suddenly the room itself began to turn. Seemingly at a loss for balance, John had taken a firm hold of the toilet seat and had eased himself down onto the floor. He knew at any moment he was going to get sick.

Someone knocked on the door. “John?” Sherlock. “You’re taking longer than normal.” A few seconds passed before the door knob turned, and the door swung open, revealing Sherlock in his blue dressing gown. The cold air floated into the room along with him.

Sherlock knelt down on the floor beside him. Feeling his heart pound harder in his chest and saliva fill his mouth, John bent over the toilet and heaved. One hand ended up grabbing the edge of the nearby tub for support, the other in Sherlock’s own. Once he had regained his composure, John found that he couldn’t look at Sherlock. Not here. Not now.

“What are you ashamed of?” Sherlock asked.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t already figured it out.”

“…I want you to talk to me. It would seem that a lack of communication got us to this point. And I think, now that we’re here, we should probably change a few other habits.”

John looked at Sherlock and met his eyes. Seeing such sincerity radiating from Sherlock, he rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “I should be more in control. I should be keeping myself in check.”

“Why are you being so hard on yourself?”

“It’s my fault that I’m in this position, and I deserve this punishment.”

“What makes you think you deserve this?”

“Ugh… Fucking hell, Sherlock. You already know why.”

“I want to see if you can admit it to yourself.”

“I-I- “John sighed. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, John. You can. Now, let it go.”

The bathroom was silent.

All of a sudden, John’s shoulders began to tremble. Sherlock wrapped him in his arms and let John cry. Feeling John fall apart against his chest, Sherlock could not help but allow his own tears to fall.

“There you go. There you go. It’s alright,” Sherlock soothed.

John shook his head. “N-N-No. I-It-s” John erupted into hiccups. “It’s n-n-n-ot.”

“What’s wrong, John. Tell me what’s wrong.”

John sniffled. “I-I’m the r-reason they-re a-all dead. I’m the r-reason all of t-this has happened t-to us.”

“Do you really believe that you should carry the blame for Mary’s death? For the baby’s death? For the soldiers’ deaths? For our misfortune with Moriarty? John, you’re carrying more than you have to-more than would ever be pushed onto a righteous man like yourself. You try so hard to heal- to protect. Your self-contempt is completely unjustified.”

“I-I h-hate who I am. I-I hate what I-I’ve let happen. I’I don’t want to be this person anymore.”

“I know, baby, I know. But we’re going to work on that.”

Sherlock let John cry against him for a few more minutes before flushing the toilet to get rid of the vomit-smell in the room. Daisy, who had been just outside the bathroom listening to the conversation emerged with a bottle of water, a towel, and a syringe, since she now deemed injections necessary for the medicine to be absorbed into the body completely without it being vomited.


	13. When We Mend Our Broken Bridges (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. It's been a while. First, it was winter storm Jonas, and then I had finals, and then I went to go see Phantom of the Opera, and then new classes started... Anyway, it was a mess.  
> But, I'm here now! Thank you for your patience! And for your continued support!  
> I hope you all enjoy this.  
> My apologies for any mistakes.  
> You might notice that the texting format is different for both Sherlock and John's phones, and I did that because of the different models of phones that they each have. Just an added touch. :)  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

Sherlock and Daisy had left John to take his shower after they had successfully calmed him down. They now stood in the kitchen, mugs filled with tea in hand.

“You performed well, today, Sherlock,” Daisy said after a few moments of dense silence. “I must say, your manner has improved since I saw you last.”

“A lot has happened since then.”

She smirked. “ _That’s_ not apparent.”

Sherlock absentmindedly tapped the side of his mug with his index finger. “Have you heard anything from Harry, yet?”

Daisy nodded. “I got a reply from her this morning. She’s more than happy to come into London. She got on the train about an hour or so ago. But then again, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but that’s not exactly what we should be concerned with. Do you honestly think this is going to work?”

“…I think it’s worth a shot. I really just want to see how he reacts. Then, I’ll determine whether or not to include her in the recovery process. You told me their relationship was virtually nonexistent, but I wonder how much it’s going to change. You can offer him support from your position as his boyfriend and as a drug addict, but Harry can as well.  Given that he’s an alcoholic, a recently outed bisexual, and a Watson, Harry holds an edge of her own.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “I know their relationship was tense before. From what I could gather, he wasn’t supportive of her drinking habits.”

The water stopped running through the pipes, and Sherlock and Daisy both instinctively looked towards the bathroom. John was out of the shower.

“He has no reason to hold that over her head now,” Daisy murmured. “She’ll arrive in the city in about an hour or so. If he’s feeling well enough, we’ll have Harry come over after she checks into her hotel. His withdrawal is certainly less messy than yours was, but then again, John seems to be more well-behaved.”

Sherlock shot her a sideways glance, and Daisy burst into giggles.

~

Erin, having gone to the hairdresser to exchange her blue hair for purple prior to her shift, came into the flat just in time to take over for Daisy and give John his injection. Sherlock stood tense and motionless in his armchair and watched the syringe enter John’s flesh, his fingernails digging into the leather as the arm Erin was holding kept convulsing, along with the rest of him. It was getting harder and harder for Sherlock to watch John have to go through withdrawal.

He was relieved when his phone vibrated and he could find an excuse other than his own shame to look away from John.

**10:02 So, do I have to watch over both of you know? _-GL_**

**10:04 Quite unlikely. I can handle him. Mycroft must’ve told you what happened. _-SH_**

**10:07 Yes. Christ, Sherlock. I had no idea what was going on. I invited him over for drinks before this all started and he seemed fine. _-GL_**

**10:09 I could have stopped him from getting to this point much earlier, but that’s beside the point. What do you need from me? _-SH_**

**10:10 I was just checking up on you two. Can’t exactly call you out on cases right now, can I? _-GL_**

**10:12 Your cases are meaningless next to him. _-SH_**

**10:13 You’re more in touch with the news than I am. I take it that my brother’s efforts to keep this out of the tabloids have been worthwhile? _-SH_**

**10:15 Pretty much, yeah. Haven’t really heard a peep about either of you. Donovan started having suspicions when I didn’t call you into the scene yesterday, but I reckon she thinks something’s the matter with you, not John. _-GL_**

**10:17 Good. _-SH_**

**10:20 Would it be alright if I sent John a text? Just to tell him some well-wishes? I don’t know. Some sappy crap like that, I suppose. _-GL_**

Sherlock looked up and glanced in the direction of Daisy and Erin, who were outside the flat talking in hushed voices, likely discussing plans for Harry’s arrival. He then shifted his attention to his boyfriend, who was staring at the floor, mind elsewhere.

**10:22 John would like that. _-SH_**

~

_Breathe. Just… Breathe. Remember what Sherlock said. Just… Breathe._

John was positive he was going to come apart once more right there in his chair. His own sense of self-control had long since escaped his control. His body screamed in agony, _“More booze! More booze! More booze!”_

Another bead of sweat glided down his forehead, and this time, it landed in his left eye, probing it to become blurry and sting.

_This is it._

_..._

He rubbed his eye to clear it.

_I’m dying. My body is going to throw my soul from it if I don’t give it what it wants._

John looked up at Sherlock, and their gazes meet each other’s.

_Cool… Exciting… Welcoming… Alive…._

“Sh-Sherlock- “

John’s phone went off. He reached over and grabbed the excited device off of the tea table.

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 10:30**

**Mycroft told me what happened. I just wanted to check up on you.**

Sherlock smiled softly to himself.

**From: John Watson**

**Time Sent: 10:31**

**Thank you.**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 10:32**

**We all want you to get better. I need you so that I can keep ol’ Sherlock under control. Haha.**

**From: John Watson**

**Time Sent: 10:34**

**I know.**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 10:37**

**He needs you, too.**

**From: John Watson**

**Time Sent: 10:39**

**I know, Greg. And he’d been surprisingly helpful so far.**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 10:40**

**Mate, it’s really not that surprising. He’s done a lot more for you before.**

**From: John Watson**

**Time Sent: 10:40**

**What are you talking about?**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 10:42**

**It’s not my place to tell you. But, if you ever get to the point in your recovery where you feel as though you’re really losing your willpower, it might be a good idea to ask him.**

John racked his brain for a way to respond. He wanted to inquire more, but ultimately, he decided it was best to wait and ask Sherlock himself.

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**Time Sent: 10:42**

**Get well soon. We’re all behind you.**

**…**

Outside of the flat, Daisy was having a text conversation of her own, Erin close by with folded arms and a determined, workplace mask over her face.

“Do you think he will react brashly?” Erin inquired.

“He might,” Daisy replied. “But he knows he’s in no position to oppose her.”

“You’re going to take advantage of his vulnerability like that?”

“Do you honestly think I’m the bad guy here, Erin?”

“N-No. I’m just questioning your thought process.”

Daisy sent one final text to Harry and put her phone in her pocket. Harry was on her way. “Regardless, I’m allowed to let people come and visit John. And, as always, family visits are more permissible.”

~

Lunchtime rolled around, and Mrs. Hudson, doing her best to keep things easy on everyone in the flat above her, brought a platter of sandwiches up them. Less time spent cooking and more time focused on John, she surmised.

As she was making her way down the stairs, a knock came on the front door.

“I’m coming!”

Mrs. Hudson scurried to reach the front door as the person on the other side knocked once more.

“Have a little patience, now.” Mrs. Hudson opened the door. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Harry Watson,” the woman replied. “I’m here to see about my brother.”

Mrs. Hudson stared wide-eyed at the woman in shock.

“Sherlock! John!” she called, slowly turning around. “There’s someone here to see you!”

…

 _Oh, this is it,_ Sherlock thought.

Daisy, Erin, and Sherlock all exchanged looks. John, out of the loop and seemingly out of his mind, seemed indifferent to whomever was visiting.

Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room, a woman trailing behind her.

She was short, in fact, she was even shorter than John, and proportionate, too. She was paler than John was, and she looked very young except for her eyes, which were clouded with dark circles, crow’s feet, and ancient, blue irises. She wore no makeup except for some black mascara and some bright and skillfully-applied red lipstick. Her blonde hair had grown brown at her roots, and her hair itself had been cut at her shoulder, fringe hanging just above her eyebrows. She had better fashion sense than John did, though she was rocking woolen, tan blouse. She wore a dark pair of jeans as well as a white undershirt, and the beret in her hands and thigh-high boots over her legs matched the tannish hue of her blouse.

“Everyone,” Mrs. Hudson said, her nervousness and shock evident in her voice. “This is Harry Watson.”

Daisy and Erin stepped forwards and shook Harry’s hand, and Sherlock decided to do the same. John glared at his sister, dumbfounded by her presence.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, putting on a genuine smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Holmes,” Harry replied.

“Please, call me Sherlock. There’s no need for such formalities with me.”

“John,” Daisy interjected, preventing the scene from getting awkward. “I believe Harry’s come a long way to be here, haven’t you, Harry?”

“Oh, ‘bout three hundred kilometers, in fact,” Harry replied. “Nothing too bad, thanks to technological advancements.” She ended her statement with a small, haughty laugh.

John shook his head in confusion. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

The room fell silent. Everyone’s eyes laid upon Harry.

“I heard my brother was sick, and I decided to come and see him.” She walked over and stood directly in front of John’s chair. “The last time he and I saw each other, he had just returned home from Afghanistan, and he-limp and all- had come to stay with me after he had discovered that my wife had decided to leave me. He left as soon as I had started drinking again, and I gave him my old cell for all of his troubles. And, after all of these wasted opportunities to pay the kindness he has shown me my entire life back, I finally decided to make it up to my brother, if he is willing to accept me.”

John watched her, his body having gone numb as his mind raced to process all of this, his expression solemn.

“So, John, will you accept me?”

Sherlock held his breath. _Daisy, you had better be right about this._

“We have much to talk about,” John answered. “And I’d prefer our conversation to be private, if all possible.”

Erin, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson looked at Daisy. She nodded, putting even more trust in John. She had already debriefed Harry on what to do if John lost control, and she herself would be using the devices Mycroft had implemented in the flat to make sure everything was going smoothly. As smoothly as it could go, of course.

“How about we all head downstairs?” Daisy announced.

…

Harry took up a place in Sherlock’s chair.

“So, what have you been up to?” John asked in an attempt to break the ice. Honestly, the ice was thick enough to skate on.

“Well, I got a job teaching again.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah, union’s a pain in the ass, though. You?”

“Nothing. I, uh, got fired. Missing too many days, it was.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“How are things with you and Clara?”

“She’s gone for good now. She’s taken up with some Italian chick. It would seem that she’s happy.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“I know about Mary.”

…

“I should have come then. But- I didn’t. And I have no excuse for that, and you don’t deserve an excuse. You deserve answers for what happened.”

“I got my answer. Complications. That’s all. It happens.”

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I believe you never loved her. I think you loved the baby. But I think you stayed because of the baby, and the baby only.”

“Well, that’s your opinion.”

“That angered you.”

“Pft.”

“See? I did. Because you know I’m right. You only want to admit things. You don’t like it when I make my own assumptions.”

“If you’re going to sit there and push my buttons, then you can leave.”

“Alright. I’ll stop.”

Another pause.

“How bad is it?”

“I feel like my skin is about to melt off of my body.”

She smiled sadly. “Yeah. You’re going to be in the thicket soon.”

“I know, Harry.”

“… I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Don’t start this crap.”

“I am. You’ve always taken the shit. Your whole life, you’ve put yourself in the way of danger for someone else. You’re selfless.”

“Harry, please.”

“When I came out, and dad started yelling, you stood between me and him. He gave you a black eye and a busted lip, but while I helped clean you up, you laughed about it like it was nothing.”

“Harry- “

“Mum and I both knew you would choose to remain noble in your adult life, and we weren’t surprised when you enlisted in the army, and when you enrolled in med school. I never understood your resolve. Despite your temper, you’re more caring than any of the Watsons of our generation… And you willingly carry all of these burdens, even those of other people.”

“I _will_ call them back up here.”

“I should have called. I should have just showed up here one day. I didn’t know if you still wanted me to leave you alone. I didn’t know if you still hated me.”

“… Harriet, I never hated you. I- “John sighed. “I disapproved of your actions, but I never hated you. And now, since I’m in a similar position, I can understand why you reverted back to your old habits.”

(Downstairs, in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, Daisy victoriously smiled at both Erin and Sherlock before turning back to the bug.)

“I’m relieved to hear that.”

…

“So, are you and Sherlock- “

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

Harry smiled and clapped her hands. “I knew it!”

“Oh, come on!”

“Relax, I’m not going to say ‘I told you so’ at every possible opportunity.”

“You’d better not!”

“Do you really think I’m that mean?”

“No. But since me and Sherlock became a couple, I’ve had an inkling that someone’s going to do it at any possible moment.”

“Well, to be quite honest, we were all waiting for it to happen. None of us really- well, I had only heard about Mary and I still didn’t like her.”

“She wasn’t that bad!” He thought back to the time she shot Sherlock. “Okay, maybe she was a little iffy.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at that.

“Okay, she was terrible. And Sherlock is a thousand times better.”

“Welcome to the prosperous land beyond the closet doors, Dr. Watson. We’ve been waiting for you.”

John, forgetting himself and all of his agony, laughed. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“No one really changes, John. Our ideas about ourselves do. The person we were is still underneath.”

“Since when did you become so philosophical?”

“I’m not. I’m just making an observation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever get into a love-hate relationship with an actress? I freaking love Amanda Abbington, but I hate Mary. I want to like Mary, but Amanda does such a good job of portraying Mary as the lying, criminal housewife that I just can't! And at the same time, Amanda's the biggest Johnlock shipper out of all of us. How does this happen?!


	14. When Our Troubles Take Their Toll on Those Around Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. It's been a while... Heheheh. Ah- yeah. That's mostly my fault. I was busy, and when I wasn't busy, I was being lazy and exhausted. This chapter's been sitting on my laptop for at least three weeks now. Three weeks? Is that how long it's been?  
> Anyway, it's good to see you guys again. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm just gonna insert a trigger warning right here, since we're going to talk about Sherlock's excursions in Serbia in this chapter.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock. I honestly wish I did, though. I wish the BBC or whoever was going to produce a new Sherlock Holmes feature would come to me and say, "We'd like your help on our new project!" But that's not gonna happen because I'm not talented enough, and I would pump the story with more whump than what Moffat does with the BBC Sherlock cannon.  
> My apologies for any mistakes I made. We all know that I make quite a few of them.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

While Daisy and Erin were busy watching John and Harry’s reunion on one of the laptops Mycroft had provided, and while Mrs. Hudson was busy brewing enough cups of tea for everyone, Sherlock slipped outside the flat and into the alley behind Speedy’s. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a carton of cigarettes.

 _High tar._ With nervous hands, he pulled out the first cigarette that his fingertips found. _Costs a wadded_ _up bundle of notes for the best relief_ _tobacco can provide._ _At least this habit’s legal._ He pulled out a black lighter and lit the end of the cigarette.

“You know those things will kill you too, right?”

He removed the cigarette from his lips. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

Daisy slowly continued walking towards him. “Erin’s monitoring everything. It’s her job to handle more of the dirty work anyway, at least when she’s on duty.” She pointed to the cigarette he was holding. “I see you still didn’t kick that addiction.”

“What difference does it make?”

Daisy smiled sadly and leaned against the nearby brick wall. “If the devastation of your lungs doesn’t matter to you, then I guess it makes no difference at all.”

Sherlock sighed, threw the cigarette onto the cracked pavement, and promptly stomped it out with his foot. “For your information, I haven’t really smoked that much in the last year. Just- “he knew Daisy was clever enough to come up with a comeback for whatever he said, but he kept going, since he had already started with his statement. “I didn’t have any patches, and this was all I had left.”

“Strange,” Daisy whispered, her lips exaggerating every syllable so that even a beginning lip-reader could tell what she said. “You rely on patches and yet you still keep an extra box of cigarettes handy. Not really good for kicking that habit, now is it?”

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. “Look, I bought them a few days ago before John was released. I needed something stronger than a patch to calm my nerves. I haven’t used them since I got them.”

“Does that make it any less wrong?” Daisy asked.

Frustrated and finally close to losing it, Sherlock took the box of cigarettes and threw it as hard as he could on to the pavement. Individual cigarettes went flying in different directions. One flew up and hit Daisy’s jacket.

“What’s causing you so much pain?” Her voice was calm- small. _The voice of a therapist in action._

“I am not in pain!”

“I rather think you are. What are you hiding?”

“Don’t even g- “

“Don’t even what? Do my job?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t think I do. So, do you want to explain our little predicament so that I, a person of a lesser intelligence compared to yours, can understand what is happening and what I have to do next?”

Sherlock’s hands instinctively flew up into his curls and closed around them, holding them securely. “Daisy, I’m not in the mood for this. Please, just let it go.”

“Well, what’s gotten you into such a mood?”

He felt her gaze shift back and forth over his form, though it was warm- not accusatory. She wanted him to comply, but she wasn’t threatening. Simple tactics.

_Damn…_

 “I can’t do this. I can’t watch this.”

Daisy let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “What can’t you watch?”

“HIM!” Sherlock yelled, pointing towards the flat. “I can’t- “He groaned in desperation. “I wish- I wish I could help him more. I know how it feels. I know what he’s going through…. And yet I still don’t. I don’t know what’s affecting him. And I’ve failed him so many times before that I can’t bear to do it again. I want to do what I can.” His cheeks were hot from the tears of his own frustration. “I’m so upset with myself. I can’t- I simply can’t bear it!”

Daisy stepped forward and put her hand on his back.

Sniffling, Sherlock wiped his face of tears. “My apologies. I’m sorry you had to witness my loss of control.”

“That’s okay,” Daisy replied. “It’s customary for the loved ones of an addict or someone in withdrawal to feel this helplessness that you’re feeling. You’ll begin to cope in healthy ways as John will.” She patted his back before removing her hand. “You should have seen the breakdown your brother had.”

Sherlock snapped up at this. Sensing the unspoken question, Daisy continued. “ Guess since I pushed you into opening up, I should fill you in on some detail, huh? It was the afternoon of the first visitation, and you lashed out at him for putting you in rehab the moment you saw him. I watched Mycroft as he left. He sat in his car for half an hour bent over his steering wheel sobbing afterwards….” She looked down at Sherlock’s mess. “Anyway, are you gonna pick up those cigarettes? Let’s not add littering to the long list of ‘habits’ we’re dealing with. And when you’re done picking them all up, I’ll take them. Got to make sure they actually make it to the trash and stay there, don’t we?”

~

Later that night, after Harry had returned to her hotel, Erin had gone home, and Daisy had retired to bed, Sherlock and John laid in Sherlock’s bed- neither one of them stirring or making noise. The only sound amidst the pregnant silence in Sherlock’s bedroom was the muffled ticking of the wall clock in the bathroom. Reflecting on what Greg had told him, and reflecting on what Daisy had promised him, Sherlock and John both turned over and faced each other.

They locked eyes in the darkness, the light from the window creating a highlight over their glossy pupils. Captivated at the wonder in their eyes and startled that they both turned over at the same time, Sherlock and John gazed upon each other’s features. Sherlock watched as John’s eyes, dark grey orbs amidst the bleak shadows in his room, darted back and forth nervously.  

Sherlock broke the silence.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Afraid not.”

“What’s bothering you?”

“Oh, just my body and the rest of the world. You?”

“I’m just thinking. It’s what I normally do at this hour.”

…

“I wanted to talk to you about something, Sherlock.”

“Anything.”

“When Greg and I were texting earlier today, he told me that there was a lot more than I knew about when it came to sacrifices that you made. He said if I wanted to know more about it, then I could just ask you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in the dark. “John, I really don’t think that now is the time to- “

“Sherlock, I want to know what happened to you. I want to know what happened during those two years you were away.”

Sherlock was quiet. “You should really try to sleep. You were exhausted for the majority of the day. You’re going to hurt yourself even more if you don’t get some rest.”

“Sherlock, we’ve been avoiding this for too long.”

“…Would that really help you? Does- does that even matter right now?”

“I just want to know, alright? You’ve never talked about it before, and I didn’t really push it until now. I’m just concerned and… I’m in a position where I just need as many answers I can get.”

Silence.

“Come closer,” Sherlock said, removing one arm from beneath the bedsheet and wrapping it around John. John pressed himself up against Sherlock.

“I want you to know, that before I get into any of the details, I did what I had to in order to protect the few people I actually cared about here in London. That was my rationale while I was in exile, and it is still my rationale to this day.”

John’s eyes no longer wandered. They were now trained on him.

“You are not going to like what I am going to tell you, and I am not going to enjoy articulating my memories. In order to protect myself, I have diluted a majority of those memories, so you must excuse my brevity.”

John wrapped his arms around him, causing the duvet to slide off of their middles. He was really starting to regret asking. Perhaps it would be best if the waited? “If you don’t want to do this- “

“No. This has to be done sometime. You were honest with me in the hospital room, and know I must be honest with you. You asked, and now I will answer. You were right. We’ve been avoiding it. I’ve been avoiding it. I’m going to have to own up to a few things, and I’m going to have to face some trauma in order to help you with yours.”

John was silent. The floor was Sherlock’s.

“My main mission while I was away was to dismantle what was left of Moriarty’s criminal network. Leaders, assassins, snipers, everyday thieves and murderers- all of them had to be neutralized in some form or another. Magnussen was most certainly not my first kill.

“I travelled around the world. I made contact with the ground on every habited continent. Most of the cases involved in tracking down the network associates were undercover, and the very few instances in which my cover was blown yielded- “he paused. “Disastrous results.”

John pressed himself a little deeper into Sherlock’s middle. He wished, above all, to be absorbed into his flesh, to become one with his blood, to become one with _him._

“Aside from the… atrocities that I myself committed, I spent what little idle hours I had sleeping, eating, and doing drugs. It would seem that I have a particular talent for scoping out the local drug hot-spots in any city I visit. It certainly helped pass the time, and it certainly numbed my chest and quieted my head.

“When- when my cover was blown, I was taken hostage by the very people I had come to ‘take care of.’”

John put one of his hands on the nape of Sherlock’s neck and eased Sherlock’s head onto his shoulder.

“The higher up in the network the targets were, the harsher they were. I managed to escape with but a few bruises from the common kidnappers who were strewn about the lower end of the network, but sometimes, especially if the target were personal associates to Moriarty, I stayed under their control for weeks. The methods of torture varied from person to person, but some of the common themes in their manipulation included starving me, beating me, forcing insomnia upon me, and coming up with ways to make me sexually humiliated.”

“Oh no, Sherlock- “

“It’s fine. My physical body has healed. The worst one of them all resulted in Mycroft infiltrating the facility I was being held in and extracting me from my mission. I was in Serbia at the time, and I had broken into a warehouse in order to gather some intel about a target involved in a smuggling ring. I had deduced that they were using the warehouse for storage for all of their goods. I had gotten caught as I was trying to break the lock on one of the doors, and they smugglers stationed in the warehouse chased me into the woods. They employed everything they had. If it hadn’t been for the helicopter, I might have escaped.

“Naturally, after I had been captured, they took to interrogating me to discover why I was trying to break into their storehouse. I never knew how easily a lead pipe could break flesh if someone managed to strike the person with it in the same place more than once.

“Mycroft was there. He watched the whole ordeal. After I had gotten my interrogator out of the room, Mycroft freed me, and we escaped the facility under the cover of darkness. I remained in the MI6 hospital for two weeks for physical, psychological, and rehabilitation reasons.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“John, put your hands up my shirt.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Stick your hands up my shirt and feel my back.”

John reluctantly obeyed. His fingers traced up and down Sherlock’s spine, across his shoulder blades, and down his ribs. “Sherlock- “

“You’ve felt the welts that remain. They’re a lot smaller than what they were. They’re practically scars now.”

“I’m- I’m so sorry, Sherlock. And- And I attacked you as soon as you came back to me, and you were still hurt.”

“Oh, don’t be daft.” Sherlock sighed. “Greg felt me wince during our ‘embrace’ when I went to reveal myself to him. Since he seemed so open to me, and since I had gone to him many times before I met you, I felt comfortable telling him what had happened to me. That’s how he knew about my experience in Serbia.”

“Christ, Sherlock- “

Sherlock pulled back from John’s shoulder, but still remained in John’s protective hold. “It’s in the past. I’ve finally told you what happened. We shouldn’t focus on it any more until after you are well.”

John nodded and pulled the fallen duvet up around them. Sherlock and John shifted around in order to get comfortable enough to sleep in each other’s protective arms.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

Sherlock, whom had closed his eyes, felt thin, moist lips press up against his own.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, John.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, anybody going to see Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? I'd only go see it for Martin, since I loathe Tina Fey...
> 
> I'm honestly more excited about Doctor Strange, mainly because I love Marvel productions wwwaaaayyyy more than DC Comics productions, and I get to see Benedict's face. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! This story is getting so huge. We're at around 2.5k views right now. And to me, that's awesome. It's by far the longest fanfiction story I have ever written, and it's all thanks to your continuous support and feedback. You guys are great.
> 
> Have a lovely evening! Or morning! Or afternoon! Or whatever it is in your part of the world!


	15. When All We Have is Love and Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> I finally have a spring break, and it's not even as long as some other people in my state are getting. Like, what the-  
> Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! Guess what I packed it full of? If you guessed "drama and angst," you are correct!  
> My apologies for any mistakes that I made. We all know that I make quite a few of them, and that I miss some of them when I read over everything.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> Enjoy.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

John awoke the following morning with a slight headache and blurry vision. Blinking a few times, he carefully removed himself from Sherlock’s arms, since he did not want to wake him due to his light sleeping patterns. This was the most Sherlock had slept in quite some time, to John’s knowledge. He lowered Sherlock’s arms back onto the mattress and sat up in bed. His stomach began to throb at the movement, but there was no sensation inside of him that would warrant running to the loo and spilling his guts out, which was absolutely alright by him.

John quietly got out of bed and made his way into the kitchen. Daisy was standing next to the electric kettle fixing herself a cup of what looked to be Earl Grey, judging by the color and label on the tea bag tag.

“Ahh, John!” She turned and gave him a warm smile. Her pink lip gloss shined in the sunlight coming in through the kitchen window. “How did you sleep?”

“Very nice, actually,” John replied, returning her smile with one of his own. “Um… could you tell me what time it is?”

“It’s almost ten o’clock in the morning,” Daisy replied. “You and Sherlock must have been out like old lightbulbs.”

“Well, we did have a bit of a lengthy conversation last night, yes.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not exactly at the liberty to tell you what all we talked about. It’s more to do with Sherlock than it is to do with me.”

“It’s fine, John.” Daisy removed the tea bag from her mug and threw it into the trash. She then grabbed the canister of sugar behind the kettle. “I don’t understand how people can put milk in their tea,” she muttered, before turning to John again. “I’m glad that you and Sherlock are talking about the issues both of you have. Such open communication is a good thing in a relationship- which brings me to my next question. Erin just came down with a bit of a nasty sinus infection, and I gave her the day off, but we were thinking about involving Harry a lot more in your recovery plan. Would you mind if your sister came to the flat and hung around for the day?”

“Uh- no. No. After yesterday, I’m fine with her coming over.”

Daisy clapped her hands together. “Great! I’ll text her and let her know she can come over. She’s quite the character, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah, well, Harry’s always been like that.”

Daisy took a long sip from her mug and sighed, clearly satisfied with the taste and the warm feeling in her throat that the beverage gave her. “You know; they say that people who are always so bright and peppy hide the darkest emotions.” She turned to John. “It’s so strange how the people we view as exuberant and happy aren’t all that so.” She looked back at the window.

Before John could reply, Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, his dressing gown hanging loosely off of his frame and his curls in a chaotic, untamed mess. He yawned briefly before placing one hand on John’s back and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

“Good morning,” John replied, whispering as well.

Sherlock turned to Daisy, who was frequenting large gulps of tea from her mug. “Good morning, Daisy.”

“Sherlock,” Daisy acknowledged. “I’m having Harry come over today. I’ll be the only one from the clinic around here during the day.”

Sherlock gave a noise of approval before planting another kiss on John, this time on his forehead, and heading into the sitting room.

“He really loves you, John,” Daisy said. John could barely make out what she was saying. “And so does Harry. There are _so_ many people who care about you.” She looked down, her gaze hitting the kettle, and she then gasped in horror. “Oh, how rude of me! I’ve been standing here talking to you and I haven’t even offered to make you any tea! Please, do forgive me. What kind would you like?”

~

Harry arrived in the flat at around lunchtime, when Sherlock was just finishing getting himself ready for the day and John had taken a dose of his medication. She practically galloped like a gazelle into the sitting room, her mini heels clinking against the hardwood floor.

“How’s my bubby doing on this lovely morning?” Harry exclaimed, plopping herself into Sherlock’s chair. “Goodness, it’s been forever since I wore heels. I simply walked from the hotel to a cab and then from the cab to this very seat, and my feet are already killing me.” She lifted each leg up, undid the latch on each of the straps holding the shoes in place, and kicked them off. “Ahh, that’s better. Sorry ‘bout that. So, again, how are you doing?”

“Better, actually,” John replied.  “Medicine must be working.”

“Mmm. That or you’re getting used to it.” Harry shifted in the seat. “You know; you’ve lost weight since the last time I saw you.”

“The last time you saw me was over four years ago, if we’re not counting yesterday.”

“Still, you’ve lost weight.”

John glanced at Harry’s shoes. “Since when did you wear heels?”

“Since I saw them on sale and decided, ‘Why not?’”

“Well then.”

…

“John, you are such a mood-killer.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Harry laughs. “Nothing…. Would your man mind that I’m sitting in his chair?”

“My _man?”_

“Yeah, your man. Your boyfriend. Your booboo. Your hunk. Your knight in shining armor. Your all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“Jesus Christ- “

Harry snickered, her lips curling and her eyes squinting. “You’re the best John.” Harry’s smile fades, and she sits up straighter. “But on a more serious note, we do need to talk about Sherlock, and your relationship with him. What do you plan on telling mom and dad?”

“Well, now you’re killing the mood, Harry.”

“I’m serious. Have you even thought about contacting them about anything at all?”

John shook his head. “It’s too early in the morning for this. It will always be too early or too late for this, but no, I have not thought about contacting them. I didn’t even invite them to my wedding, so what makes you think that I’m going to reach out to them now?”

Harry was silent for a moment, her top row of teeth emerging from beneath her top lip and biting down on her lower one. “I think maybe they would want to know- “

“That they would want to know what, Harry?! That their son’s an alcoholic too?! That their son’s queer too?!”

Harry looked at Daisy, who was standing in the shadows in the kitchen. Daisy nodded, telling Harry to keep going. Harry quickly looked back at John.

“John, please calm down.”

He glared into her eyes, his shoulders bobbing up and down violently with each breath. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Medicine’s not working as good as I thought.”

“John.”

_“Harriet.”_

“You could at least try to talk to mom. She might listen to you. I think she’s finally come to terms with who I am. Maybe, you should set up some form of communication with her.”

John huffed. “I’ll consider it.”

“John, please don’t act like that.”

“Act like what? I’m acting perfectly _fine.”_

“You’re being very bitter.”

“Bitter? I’m just acting like anyone who has someone in their own home telling them how to live their life.”

“John, you were alcoholic, and from what I have gathered over our time reunited, you were suffering from depression and PTSD as well. You weren’t living your life, John.”

“Do you honestly think I don’t understand that?! DO YOU HONESTLY THINK I’M THAT STUPID?!”

“No, I don’t think you’re stupid, John! I think you’re incredibly smart! That’s what I’m trying to get through to you now. You were too smart to let yourself live that way! I don’t want you to have to live that way. You’re my brother, and I care so much about you!”

John leaned back in his chair, fuming. As he sat there and tried to shield his eyes from Harry’s concerned gaze, he felt his anger settling in his stomach; the voices that bounced around in his head yelling at him to act out in fury boiled down to mere cries of despair and guilt. He wanted to cry. He felt like he was soon going to. God- how he hated that precise moment when his anger withered away, and only the self-contempt that comes when one realizes the full extent that they can hate- the full extent that they can allow themselves to become the Devil’s instrument- remained.

“Hey…” Harry set one of her hands on his knee. “Come on. Talk to me.”

“I feel like a fucking idiot,” John said, getting choked up.

“Oh- come here.” Harry got up, rested her bottom on top of one of the arm rests of John’s chair, and wrapped her arms around him. John pressed his face into her blouse. “It’s okay, now.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” John said, his voice muffled. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

...

“I’m just like dad.”

“No-no! John, you’re not like him at all.”

“I lost control. I’ve lost control over everything. Everyone keeps telling me to calm down, but I can’t even control my own emotions anymore.”

“It’s alright, John. We’ll handle it. And I can take your yelling…. Just don’t do it again.”

She managed to make John giggle. “Stop it, you.”

Harry glanced back at Daisy. “John, do you maybe want to try calling mom sometime? I mean, we’ll only do it if you feel you’re ready for it, but do you still want to try to contact her?”

John nodded against Harry’s side. “Yes. I’d be okay with it.”

“Alright, then.”

Daisy came into the sitting room quietly, almost like a ghost gliding through the walls of a haunted house, passing along through the rooms soaking in everything that used to be and not making a peep in return. “Maybe we should get him into bed,” she announced. “He’s very easy to wear out in his current state. I think it would be best if we gave him a few moments to rest and to collect himself. Even getting heated up exhausts him.”

Harry stood up from the arm rest, and John, having removed himself from Harry’s now wet side, wiped his eyes and stood up. Harry put one hand on his back and the other in his right hand and led him in the direction of his and Sherlock’s bedroom.

It was about this time that Sherlock had finished getting himself ready for the day and emerged from the bedroom in question. He saw John- his eyes puffy and red and his hair a disheveled mess- and Harry walking towards him.

Without so much of a word, Sherlock took John from Harry and led him the rest of the way, gaining an entire synopsis of what had gone down while he was in the shower simply by observing. He helped John get into the bed and wrapped the bedclothes and duvet around him. John was on the verge of crying again.

“I can’t even control my own fucking anger anymore,” he murmured.

“You’ll regain your control,” Sherlock reassured him. “It will take time. You must be patient.”

“I blew up at my own sister.”

“John, your body is still adjusting to the lack of alcohol and the medication as well. This is normal.”

John placed the tips of his fingers under his eyes and cleared his bags of all of the wetness that was still there. “This is _frustrating.”_

“I know. But you have to trust us, and you have to trust the fact that this is what we have to go through in order for you to be well again.”

Daisy came into the room. “How are we doing?”

“Fine,” John murmured.

Daisy pressed her lips into a thin line, and then released them. “Do you feel ill at all? Do you think you’re going to vomit?”

John shook his head.

“Alright. We’re gonna give you a few moments to compose yourself. When you’re ready, you can come to the sitting room, and we’ll decided what we’re having for lunch.”

“Sounds good.”

Daisy then left the room, leaving Sherlock and John in heavy silence.

“Speaking of lunch,” Sherlock started. “I’m actually going out with my brother today.”

John stared at him with disbelief. “You’re going to lunch with Mycroft?”

Sherlock hesitated, deciding how he should exactly phrase what he wanted to say. “There are a few things that he and I need to discuss- in light of some recent events and revelations. Would you like me to stay here?”

“No,” John answered. “I’ll- uh, I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John’s forehead. “If that’s the case, I should be on my way. It wouldn’t do to keep the queen waiting, now would it? I love you, John.”

“I love you too, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled to himself and left the room, leaving John to the comfort and warmth of the bed and the heavy yet nonmaterial silence that provokes all deep thinking and resolutions.

 _Have trust,_ John thought. _Wouldn’t Ella love to say something to me right now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys even read these notes? I feel like I ramble on in the notes, and yet I know you're only here for the whump, and you're less focused on my ramblings. Oh well.  
> Thank you so much for all of your support. It never ceases to put a smile on my face. The amount of attention this story has gotten is literally blowing my mind. Literally. I look like Moriarty in TAB.  
> By the way, I just changed my site skin to Panda Madness, and I love it!!!  
> Have a great spring! I hope you enjoy whatever spring celebration you participate in.


	16. When We Mend Our Broken Bridges (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends. I hope you all are doing well.  
> I have a spectacular update for you guys. This is probably one of the best chapters of this fanfic, in my own opinion. And it's not because I have an insatiable love of Mycroft. I honestly do not understand why people do not like him.  
> So, without further ado, I give you the update... at it's usual time.  
> My apologies for any mistakes.  
> Once more, I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> Thank you for all of your support.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

As he waited, he found sudden interest in the feel and the shine of the wooden chair that he had been seated in.  Around him sat distinguished guests, clad in equally distinguishing attire, chattering on about the petty things in their lives- what they did that morning, how amazing the lavish gardens that they can afford to have looked lovely this year, what they should do in the city before the day ends, what should or shouldn’t be happening in the world, even though, with their prestige, they could easily be influencing their own events of discussion or could be buying themselves out of the repercussions.

Sherlock glanced over at the man sitting a few meters away, the closest patron to him at the moment. _Bank-chain owner. Divorced three times. Sitting with his trophy wife, though she knows as much as I do he’s glancing around at the other women seated in the dining room. He won’t find anyone in this room he wants, though. And eventually, he’ll turn back to her and pretend to listen to what she wants to talk about. Ah- there, a smile- a solemn sign that he might be listening. Four kids by his different wives. All were given into the custody of their respective mothers. He’s glad to be rid of-_

“I must say, I was much taken back by your request.”

Sherlock snapped out of deduction mode and subconsciously sat up straighter in his seat in surprise.

“Repulsive, are they not?” Mycroft sat down in the chair across from Sherlock. “You should consider yourself blessed. The most corrupt of England’s higher-ups have not taken up their usual places today.”

“It does appear that one still has shown up today,” Sherlock shot back.

Mycroft smiled, his lips curving into almost a Grinch-like grin. “An easy retort. I expected more.” He straightened a few of the utensils that had been set at his place setting. Even at one of the most refined restaurants in the whole of England, Mycroft was still nit-picky enough to scope out even the tiniest of incorrect details. “I took the liberty of placing our orders ahead of time, to save us from suffering through the mundane.”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, realized it, and quickly let it go.

“Now, since it might still be some time yet before we receive our lunch, I must inquire- what do you want to discuss?”

“I believe that I know some things about you that you would not want me to know.”

“Pray tell.”

“I will give you the liberty of knowing what Daisy told me, if you promise to be explicitly honest in answering any questions that I have for you.”

At mention of Daisy, Mycroft’s smile had faded into a frown. “Doctor Maybelle may be a psychiatrist with a knack for her chosen field- “

“I asked you to promise.”

A huff. “I promise.”

“Good.”

Mycroft glanced in the direction of the kitchen, then back at Sherlock. “What did Miss Daisy tell you?”

“Oh, nothing that would cause the death of your reputation. Just the fact that you had a nervous breakdown in your car after you had visited me in rehab for the first time since you had put me there. Nothing too big.”

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched. Sherlock, with all of his mental abilities, could not get a reading on what was going on in Mycroft’s head.

“Is that all she told you?”

“At the moment, yes.”

“Well, then there’s no cause for alarm.”

“I think there might be.”

“Why are you so bothered by it?”

“Why are you not addressing what happened?”

“What would you like me to say, Sherlock?”

“I want you to talk to me about it.”

Mycroft leaned forward slightly. “You’ve known for quite some time the choices that I have made for you, myself, and our family. I’ve made my concern known in the only way the two of us know how and the only way the two of us understand. I’d have thought you had come to terms with that by now.”

“I’ll suppose I’ll have to repeat myself, despite how much I loathe it. I want you to talk to me about it.”

Mycroft leaned back, his spine aligned with the middle of the back of his chair. “You did force me to promise.”

“As I recall, I did.”

Another huff. “I should hope that you’re aware that there was nothing that was easy for me to do in terms of you in your late youth.”

“I already understand that.”

“Let me finish. Can you at least do that?”

Sherlock bit his lip again.

“I had thought that, by getting you to agree to enter that facility and by achieving success in actually getting you to the facility itself, perhaps there was a significant chance that you could turn your life around. When I was informed that I was allowed to visit, I could not help but take the opportunity to check up on you. So, I took the day off and came to the rehab facility. You, in your stupor, were not very obliged to seeing me.”

“…Were you upset because I lashed out at you?”

“Partially, yes. But then again, anything you say to me normally does not affect me for long. You know that.”

Sherlock managed a smile. “Likewise.”

“But regardless… I suppose what happened that day put the entire situation into perspective for me. You were an addict, and I was honest enough with myself to realize that I had enabled you for a majority of the time that you spent on the streets. You were in rehab. And you hated my guts, even more so than before I was able to send you there. And I suppose I was no longer able to keep my composure.”

“Why haven’t you told me any of this before?”

“It’s not as though there was any instance in which you needed to know that. I also was not considering the fact that I could have been watched, especially by Miss Daisy.”

Sherlock looked into the water inside of his water glass that was provided along with his glass of wine, and he saw a mirror-image of himself staring back at him. His eyes grew warm and heavy.

Mycroft folded his hands together and set them onto his lap. “Do you have anything else you would like to inquire about? I did promise.”

“You… You are aware that I didn’t mean anything that I said to you on that day, right? I don’t despise you. To be honest, I never really have. I was confused, yes. I was angry, yes. But I didn’t hate you.”

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitched once more. “I had hoped as much.”

Sherlock looked away and sighed. “Well, I’m afraid we have made our lunch engagement extremely awkward.”

Mycroft hummed in agreement. “I should much like to lighten the mood before our food is delivered to us. After all, we never do this.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, we don’t, do we?”

~

_Later that night…_

John slowly got up out of bed. The clock on the end table read two-thirty-nine in digital, red, angry numbers. John walked to the entrance to the bathroom beside Sherlock’s closet, ran his finger up and down the distorted glass- seemingly admiring it, and went inside.

He had to stop and wait for his eyes to adjust to the bright lights in the bathroom before he could pee. While he was standing over the toilet taking care of what every human who has ever existed has needed to take care of, he noticed that the toilet paper next to the toilet had been reduced down to a cardboard roll. Deciding to go ahead and change it while he was in the bathroom, John finished his business, washed his hands, threw the cardboard roll into the trash bin, and opened the cabinet beneath the sink in search of an extra roll of toilet paper.

And that’s when he found it.

Sitting next to the towels and toilet paper rolls was a half-empty bottle of Sherlock’s mouthwash.

John’s eyes paused over the bottle, taking a good, long look at the electric-blue, minty-fresh liquid inside. Shaking his head, John quickly grabbed one of the toilet paper rolls and put it in the toilet paper roll holder beside the toilet. He was about to close the cabinet door, but halfway through completing the action, John’s hand stopped. Instead of pushing the cabinet door closer to the rest of the vanity, John found his grip increasing on the handle.

With his free hand, John reached down and wrapped his fingers around the plastic white cap on the bottle of mouthwash. He pulled it out of its spot and examined it closer.

“Gum disease prevention, huh,” John muttered beneath his breath. “And reverses the early signs of gum disease in as little as two weeks. Well, I’ll be damned.”

Sherlock, seeing that John was going to be using his bathroom and was going to be sleeping along with him in his bed, had moved John’s toothbrush and toothpaste down into his bathroom so that John would be able to brush his teeth in the morning, before bed, and after he threw up more conveniently as well as under his watch, and John hadn’t really objected to it. Sherlock, well-aware of the contents of mouthwash, and the ways it can be used by people of a certain rebellious caliber, hadn’t brought John’s mouthwash down into his bathroom. Which John would have thought was wise, if he had actually thought about it prior to finding Sherlock’s mouthwash in easy access.

He shook the bottle. White bubbles formed around the edges of the inside of the bottle from all of the force he had applied to liquid.

“Damn.”

It would not have been hard for him to unscrew the cap, lift it to his lips, and chug it. Sure, it wouldn’t be enough to get him thoroughly drunk, but it might just be enough to ease what the medicine could not. And then he remembered how easy it would be for Sherlock to recognize the scent of his own mouthwash on John’s breath and realize what he had done.

John heard Sherlock’s mattress creak from movement and the floor groan from pressure. A knock.

“John.”

John set the bottle of the mouthwash beside the sink.

“John. Open the door.”

John obeyed. Sherlock walked into the bathroom, saw the bottle, and sighed.

“You didn’t drink any of it.”

“No.” John ran a hand through his hair.

“Good.” Sherlock took the bottle of mouthwash, opened it, and poured all of its contents down the drain. He then turned on the faucet, cleaned out the sink, proceeded to fill the bottle with tap water, and dumped the bottle’s contents again. With a resolute expression, Sherlock cleaned the cap, turned off the faucet, screwed the cap back on, and threw the bottle into the trash bin with a loud thud.

John wondered if Sherlock had dumped John’s mouthwash when he had gone to retrieve his toothbrush and toothpaste.

“My apologies, John. I should have been more careful.”

“It’s fine.”

Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Come. Back to bed.”

John walked out of the bathroom and climbed back into his place in Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock turned the light out, closed the bathroom door quietly, and followed suit.

“That was… a very strong thing that you did.”

“I’m sure I would have drunk it if you had not come to check on me.”

“I still admire it. I should know how much dexterity is needed to resist temptation that strong. I myself was almost close to having a breakdown when I rid myself of my stash. It was nice to see your restraint.”

“You never would have admitted that to me prior to all of this.”

Sherlock smiled sadly in the dark. “No, I don’t suppose I would have.”

~

The following morning, Erin came in with her blue hair in a messy bun, her eyes still puffy, and her nose still clogged. However, as soon as Daisy handed her a folder of paperwork that needed to be completed, Erin took the folder and began sorting through it with as much determination as a honeybee in the middle of a garden in full-bloom. Daisy sent word to Harry, telling her that yes, she could come by the flat today and every day she was still in London.

Harry practically sped over to the flat. She of course, greeted everyone in 221B with a warm smile and a loud greeting so that everyone in the flat knew of her entrance. John found that he did not even mind.

Sherlock, Harry, and John sat in the sitting room watching the news on the telly. Erin and Daisy stayed in the kitchen, and with a hushed voice, Daisy informed Erin of the plan to contact Mrs. Watson as well as the events of the previous morning.  

“I think Mrs. Watson will be delighted to hear from her son,” Erin said. “I think that’s what distance does to people. They appreciate contact more.”

“Let’s hope you are right,” Daisy replied. “I was certainly more confident with introducing Harry back into his life than I am with his mother. He claims that he is open to talking with her. I just hope that the conversation goes well.”

“Do you think that maybe you might be moving a little too quickly with this, boss? I know I questioned you when you let Harry come, but do you think that maybe we should slow down?”

“No, Erin. As crazy as it sounds, I do not. Though he does have a support system in place that is secure and strong, it would do nothing but benefit John if there were to be more familial relations included in that support system. And I think reconciliation is doing wonders for his self-confidence at this time.”

“Aside from Sherlock?”

“Alright, you’ve got me there. Yes, aside from Sherlock’s care, reconciliation is doing wonders for his self-confidence at this time.”

Erin smiled.

Sherlock, though he could not hear Daisy and Erin’s conversation, was a good enough lip-reader to watch and decipher their conversation through his peripheral vision. He then looked away from the images of the tube and the reporter talking about possible metro delays on the telly and looked upon John.

~

“John,” Harry said. His snapped up in surprise. “Do you think that perhaps you would be willing to talk to mom if I called her up right now?”

John shifted in his chair. “Um… sure. Right, yeah. I’m ready.”

Harry nodded and pulled out her mobile. She searched through her contacts, found her mother’s number, pressed the call button, and held it up to her ear.

“Oh, hey mom! Oh, nothing much. Yes, I made it to London in one piece. Right, yeah, I did promise I would tell you why. Well, um, it’s really not my place to tell you.” She looked at John. “However, the person who can tell you does want to talk to you.” She turned away from John, a frown quickly forming on her face. “No, I am not bullshitting you! Just- “she sighed. “Someone wants to talk to you, okay?”

She handed the mobile to John. He took a deep breath and held it up to his ear.

“Hey.”

Silence.

“…Is that- no, it can’t- Johnny?”

“Yes, mom.”

More silence. And then a squeal of excitement.

“Oh my goodness! Johnny! It’s my Johnny-boy! Oh. Oh.”

“Mom, calm down.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. It’s just I haven’t heard from you in forever. I mean, I know what you’ve been up to. Harry linked me your blog when we started talking to each other again, heheh. But it’s so nice to talk to you again!”

John looked at Harry. He must have had an apprehensive look on his face, since Harry broke out into silent laughter.

“it’s good to hear from you too,” he replied.

“So, Harry’s visiting you in London?”

“Yes. Yes, she is.”

“My, it’s good to talk to you again! I suppose she’s met your eccentric little friend.”

“Yes, Harry’s met Sherlock.”

“Oh, that name. It just sends shivers down my spine.”

 _Well, it’s now or never,_ John thought. “It is a nice name. And we’re actually a couple now.”

…

“I knew it.”

“You knew it?”

“Johnny, I’ve read your blog. You practically put the man on a pedestal in every post. I knew you had the hots for him after the third entry.”

“Well, that gets a lot out of the way.”

“So, should I be expecting an invitation to a special ceremony anytime soon? After all, you neglected to send me and your father one for your last wedding.”

“Sherlock and I are in a relationship right now. We’ll see if it gets to that point. And, as for my previous wedding, I honestly didn’t want to invite you. The wedding was terrible anyway, and so was the marriage, if I’m being honest.”

“It’s alright, John. I know how it feels when it doesn’t work out. I know how it feels to have leave someone that you’re married to. I finally left your father, after all.”

“You left dad?”

“Yes, I finally decided that I had had enough of all of his shit. I packed up my stuff and walked right out of that damn house. Called your sister up afterwards and told her the good news.”

“That’s- that’s actually really great.”

“I know.”

…

“John, now I know you didn’t call me to talk about relationships, and I know Harry wouldn’t visit you just because you finally got together with your flat mate. Come on, tell me what’s happened.”

John’s heart sank into his stomach. It was time. “I-uh, well, you’re right. There is something I need to tell you.”

“I’m still your mother, John. It may have been a long time since we’ve talked, but you can still tell me anything. I’ll still listen.”

“It’s just- it’s a little hard to tell you, that’s all.”

“It’s okay. I’m not going to judge you, honey. You take all the time that you need.”

John sniffled. _Oh God, not now._ “Mom, I’ve been diagnosed as an alcoholic.”

“…Oh John.”

“I’m sorry, mom.”

“No, no. Don’t be like that. Don’t go being sorry. Being sorry isn’t going to help anything. Are you receiving treatment?”

“Yes.” He was close to losing it. Again.

“Hey, it’s alright. Don’t get upset. I’m not mad at you. I’m actually very happy that you told me.”

Tears started falling down John’s cheeks. _Damn._

“Do I need to come there?”

“No, mom.”

She sighed.

“Okay, if you say so.”

…

“I’m still proud of you. You’re still my precious little Johnny. You know that.”

“Yes, I guess do.”

“This doesn’t make a difference to me. This distance doesn’t make a difference to me. Granted, I do deserve this distance because of all that I put you through. But I still love you just the same as I did when you were small.”

He wiped his eyes. “I know. It’s just so hard to admit it. I still feel ashamed that I let it get this far.”

“I know. But you don’t have to keep feeling this way. Here. Why don’t you hand me back to your sister and go and calm down, alright? Get your man to come over there and take care of you.”

He laughed. “Alright, mom.”

“And John?”

“Yes.”

“It was good to hear from you.”

“It was good to hear from you too.”

John handed the mobile back to Harry, who took it and resumed talking to their mother with a dark expression on her face. Sherlock came over to John, who practically collapsed into Sherlock’s embrace.

“How did it go?” Sherlock whispered into his ear.

John nodded in reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus! I look over these updates before I post them, and I make sure there are no typos. I also, later, glance over the chapter once it's been posted. And I didn't even find anything.  
> Until I saw " I suppose she's meet your special friend," and I just cringed.  
> God... You all know how much I hate my own typos.


	17. When We Begin to Claw Our Way to the Surface (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone.  
> Before you read this chapter, I would like to say that yes, I have been to talk therapy before, and I have also been educated on some aspects of psychology. In designing Daisy's character, I wanted to make her someone that I felt like would be beneficial to John. I'm not saying that everything that Daisy does is right or wrong. I'm thinking in terms of John. If that makes sense.  
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> Thank you for all of your support.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

Harry stepped outside of the flat, hung around the top of the stairs, and talked to her mother, who, as Sherlock reasoned, had bombarded her with questions about John’s situation as soon as John had handed the mobile back to her.

Sherlock turned to Daisy, who had just left her place in the dark shadows of the kitchen and was pulling out one of the chairs at the breakfast table to sit upon.

_Will his mum eventually come here?_ Sherlock mouthed.

_If need be,_ she mouthed back. _I’ve already talked to her about it._

John sniffled against Sherlock’s chest (his tears seemed to be sputtering out as John seemed to gain more of a grasp of what just happened), causing both Daisy and Sherlock to direct their attention away from Mrs. Watson’s purpose in John’s recovery and back towards John himself.

Daisy crossed her ankles. “You did well, John,” Daisy said, her voice as soft as swan’s down. “That took a lot of courage.”

“It certainly did,” Sherlock concurred. He rested his head on top of John’s and breathed in his lover’s natural scent and the scent of his cheap shampoo. “You should be proud of yourself for talking to her. I am.”

John nestled his head a little deeper into Sherlock’s chest. “I-I’ve forgotten how much I’ve missed her,” John said. “It felt so nice to be able to hear my mum’s voice again.”

“She still cares about you, John.” Daisy, realizing that her ankles were crossed, uncrossed them and let her feet rest upon the rug. “She still loves you.”

John nodded. “I know. After all of these years. After all of this silence. And I still love her.”

“John,” Daisy said. “Would you be willing to reach out to her again, if I wanted you to, or if you really just felt like talking to your mum?”

“Yes.” John lifted his head so that his face was no longer hidden, but he remained in Sherlock’s embrace. If he was honest with himself, which he knew he had to be, Sherlock was the only reason he was able to face the phantoms that he had allowed into his life and tried so hard to ignore. “I would love to talk to her again.”

“Good.” Daisy nodded. “Good,” she repeated, more quietly this time. “John, I would like us- just the two of us- to sit down, maybe tomorrow, and just have a little talk. You know, we could talk about what happened with your mum, we could talk about your sister, we could talk about Sherlock, we could talk about you personally, or we could just start talking about whatever you want, really. Whatever you feel comfortable with. But- I would like to sit down with you and talk. Does that sound alright?”

_Talk therapy,_ John thought. _Oh, this isn’t going to get any easier, is it?_

“I’m fine with it,” John answered. “And it’s- just us for the time being?”

Daisy nodded. ‘We can talk about things with Sherlock or Harry or whomever if you want. But, for the time being, I think it should be just the two of us discussing things.”

John nodded. “M’kay. That’s fine with me.”

“John.” Sherlock lifted his head from John’s. “Are you comfortable with her? Are you alright with talking to her, specifically? And you’re alright with doing this here?”

John looked at Daisy. “Yes.”

Daisy licked her lips and nodded, her eyes momentarily glancing in the direction of the floor. “That settles it then. Now, anyone for a cuppa?”

~

_The following afternoon…_

Daisy ordered Harry, Sherlock, and Erin, whom she gave explicit orders to be at the ready, should she need any assistance for any reason during her session with John, out of the flat. John took a place on the sofa while Daisy was busy in the kitchen getting them both glasses of water and tried to believe that he actually was going to have a therapy session on the couch that he had fallen asleep upon so many times before. And that made him wonder once more that if he concentrated hard enough, that maybe he would wake up on that very couch and discover that everything had been the result of jumbled memories floating around his head as he slept.

Daisy returned with a glass of water in each hand. She handed one to John and set the other on the breakfast table. She sat down in the chair that John had eaten dinner with Sherlock in on quiet evenings and after the solving of the simpler cases that came their way.

“Right,” she said, pulling a small, leather-bound notebook and ball-point pen from her pocket. She opened the notebook to the first page and uncapped the pen.

“Right,” John repeated.

“Well, before we begin, I would like to reiterate what I said yesterday and expand on a few things,” Daisy said. “We can talk about anything. I want you to be as comfortable as possible. I may write down a few things that you say on my notepad, but these are for my eyes only. What you say with me will stay between us unless what you reveal to me involves some sort of harm coming to you or to someone else. If you should have questions during our sessions, you may, of course, ask them, and I will answer them. I trust, as a medical professional yourself and as someone who has gone through this before, you are well-aware of what I am saying?”

John nodded. “I know.”

“Good. I’m glad we’re on the same page. So, since you know that I’ve seen your health records, and since I’ve essentially been living with you or the past week, that’s the end of the lingo that I have to talk about. Now, we can talk.”

John traced the stitches in the leather armrest. “I’m surprised you didn’t hand me one of those questionnaires and ask me to elaborate on my answers. But then again, you know practically everything about me that would apply to those damned questions anyway.”

“I know what it says on your health records and what observations I have made, but I don’t know your side to some of this.”

“I’m an alcoholic. I’ve admitted it. What more is there?”

“I hardly think that alcoholism is the only thing that people can observe about you, nor do I think it’s the only issue that could be plaguing you.”

“I’m in this position because I took to the bottle. A lot of this mess could have been avoided if I hadn’t drunk as much as I did. There.”

“What do you mean by ‘this mess’?”

“Everything I’m doing right now. It’s a mess.”

“Like what?”

“You know. The pills. The shivers. The meltdowns.”

“And you think you could have avoided all of this, if you hadn’t drunk as much?”

“Well, of course. I wouldn’t be speaking to you now if I wasn’t an alcoholic.”

“I see. So what makes it a ‘mess’? What’s really bothering you about it all?”

“I don’t know. It’s just- stressful. And unnecessary.”

“Alright. What’s making you stressed?”

“It’s- auh. Everything just seems to be happening at once.”

“Do you feel overwhelmed by all of this?”

John swallowed a lump that had seemingly been growing in his throat since their conversation started. It didn’t exactly go down as John had wanted it to. “Yes.”

Daisy scribbled something down on her notebook quickly before looking back up at John. “How long have you felt overwhelmed?”

“In relation to this mess?”

“… In general.”

John leaned back into the sofa a little more. “I- I don’t know.”

“Alright. That’s fine. What seems to be making you overwhelmed right now?”

“I can’t- “He shook his head. “It’s all too much. I don’t… I don’t have control over anything that’s happening. Everything’s… out of my hands.”

“Do you find yourself becoming stressed more easily when you feel like you lose control?”

“’Course.”

Daisy’s pen started moving again. “Why do you feel like you’ve lost control?”

“I-I can’t do anything for myself anymore. Someone else has to do it or someone else has to watch me. Sherlock has to take care of me all of the fucking time now.”

“Do you feel weaker now that Sherlock is taking care of you all of the time?”

“I- I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“Why do you think that you shouldn’t feel that way?”

“He’s my boyfriend. He’s my best friend. He’s the only person that I’ve ever truly loved. I just think that I should be able to allow him to do things for me without feeling ashamed. That’s all.”

“Okay. I understand. What about it makes you feel ashamed?”

John sighs and takes a sip of water. “I guess I’ve been taking care of him for so long it just… I just feel so defensive now that everything has switched.”

“So you feel like everything’s out of the ordinary?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that this rapid shift from what you once knew may also be making you overwhelmed?”

John looked at her for a moment. “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, I do.”

“Do you feel as though that you’ve lost control over yourself, as well as your situation?”

John nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Yes.”

“How so, John?”

“I- I can’t control my own emotions anymore. I feel like I’ve lost all jurisdiction over them. They run wild. I find myself perfectly calm in Sherlock’s arms, just enjoying his presence, and then, before I know it, I’m weeping.” Daisy took this time to jot a few more things down. John continued, “And you’ve seen me blow up at Harry. There’s no place for it. But I can’t seem to stop it. Or at least express it in a way that’s not embarrassing… or hurtful. It’s a goddamn rollercoaster.”

“What sort of things set you off on this emotional rollercoaster?”

“Oh, anything, now. I feel so deprived because I haven’t gotten drunk in over a week that I could very well blow up at anything. I could be watching telly and see something like, I don’t know, some annoying commercial that I’ve seen thousands of times before, and I could just go off at it. And then, afterwards, I’d probably feel so ashamed at myself for letting something so small as a commercial get to me that I’d burst into tears and require the help of multiple people in order to calm down.”

“Do you think that these sort of outbursts could be a byproduct of your alcohol withdrawal… or do you feel that you’ve always had a tendency to have them, but you’ve just been more careful about controlling them?”

John licked his lips. “Yeah, I do think I’ve always been prone to these sorts of things. I just, with everything that’s been happening, and the fact that I’m not necessarily the person I used to be right now, can’t hold everything in anymore. I think I’ve always held in more than I probably needed to, and I guess now it’s all sort of tumbling out.”

“I see. I really do.” Daisy’s voice had reached that soothing tone once more. “What goes on when everything ‘tumbles out’?”

“I feel like I’ve become a waterfall. I’m not human anymore. I feel pitiful. I feel lost. I feel like… like I can’t stop myself when I get into a position like that. I feel like eventually, I’m gonna go to that place again, and I’m not gonna be able to stop myself from acting against myself.”

“What did you initially do to stop yourself from acting out in that way?”

“I told you, Daisy. I drank. And drank. And I ended up here.”

Daisy wrote something down, and then capped her pen. John wanted to inquire about it, but he trusted her enough to not question her methods. Daisy leaned forward, resting her elbows upon her thighs and folding her hands together.

“John, are you alright to keep going?”

“Yes, I think I am.”

“Okay. Are you alright with what we’ve been talking about?”

“Yes.”

“And do you still feel comfortable divulging this information to me?”

“…More so than I thought I was going to be.”

“Alright, then.” Daisy sat up straight. “You’re doing very well.” She uncapped her pen. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a bit more control. Is there anything that we’re doing that is making things, well, a bit too much for you, if you know what I mean?”

“…No. You’re all fine.”

“Are you sure? Do you perhaps want to try something different? A different medication perhaps? Or do you want me to yell at Sherlock so he’s not preening over you all the time?”

John laughed, and Daisy subsequently smiled.

“No, I’m alright with it.”

Daisy nodded. “Well, since you’ve said that you are prone to these sorts of outbursts, I’d like to come up with a system so that everyone here knows when it’s about to happen, and that way everyone will know how to react and how to help you when you get into a position like that.”

John nodded. “I’m listening.”

“What I’m envisioning is something simple: a code word, or even a phrase. Something that you can say that would let us know when you’re feeling overwhelmed or upset with something. That way, the rest of us can assume our positions and ensure the safety of everyone, especially you.”

“…That sounds good.”

“Good. Can you think of anything that would be code-worthy? Something that would let us know when you need our help?”

John took a sip of water.  He said the first thing that came to his mind. “Vatican cameos.”

Daisy nodded. “That sounds perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just hate it when you change your profile picture, but not all of the things that you post will have the new profile picture next to them? Not that I'm complaining. I'm just asking.


	18. When We Begin to Claw Our Way to the Surface (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! It's good to see you again. I hope you all are doing well.  
> I hope you guys enjoy this update.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> My apologies for any mistakes. I proofread, but I do not catch every little mistake.  
> Thanks for your continued support. It means a lot to me. It's one of the reasons I like this fandom so much.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

_Later that night…_

Sherlock had been careful not to wake his boyfriend as he wrapped his arms around his peaceful form and moved him closer to his chest.  John’s head, sensing it was being moved, rested itself upon Sherlock’s shoulder. It would seem that, even in sleep, John seemed to be drawn to his boyfriend’s presence.  Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure how he should feel about that- he supposed he should feel glad about how far they seemingly had come in the past week. And a part of him was happy for all that had occurred between him and John in recent times, even if the circumstances were not ideal.

 _They never are._ Sherlock glanced over at his dresser. _Yes. Of course. The source of all of my own condemnation._

Sherlock carefully untangled himself from John, laying his limbs softly onto the bed. He walked quietly towards the dresser, only stopping to glance back at John to make sure he had not been aroused by Sherlock stepping on one of the creakier floorboards. He opened the top drawer, moved his t-shirts out of the way, and felt the back portion of the drawer itself. He pressed upon the back of the drawer, and it subsequently moved out from its frame. He gently pushed it aside, revealing a secret compartment which contained a goodie bag filled with off-whitish powder and a black leather kit, which, one could assume based on the fact that the bag of heroin was found next to it, contained Sherlock’s syringe.

Biting his lip, Sherlock fed his shaking fingers into the compartment and removed both the kit and the goodie bag and set them on top of the dresser. He put his t-shirts back in the order in which he liked them to be, shut the drawer, grabbed the kit and goodie bag, and made haste in getting to the bathroom before he could think twice about what he was doing.

He closed the door behind him and locked it before bothering to turn on the lights. The bright lightbulbs positioned above the mirror allowed Sherlock to see his reflection. He looked better than he had in years, if he was honest with himself, likely due to the amount of sleep that he had been getting and the amount of food that he had been consuming. He watched himself sigh and shake his head at himself in the mirror. He set the kit on the bathroom counter and went about removing the silver twist-tie on the bag.

Staring at the powder, he felt the crook of his arm begin to itch. His body could even sense when it was near. A part of him wanted to him to stop before he did anything, but Sherlock decided that he had come far enough in the process and was in no position to turn back now.

…

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock lifted the toilet lid and dumped _all_ of the bag’s contents into the toilet and flushed it. He glanced back over at his kit, and after careful consideration, decided he would give it to Daisy tomorrow.

The empty goodie bag floated unceremoniously onto the floor. Sherlock put his head down upon the counter and began reciting the elements in the order that they were listed on the Periodic Table in an attempt to keep himself together.

If John could do it, then he could too.

~

_The next morning…_

“Hey, Daisy.”

Daisy looked up from the manila file that she was looking through. “Harry.”

Harry sat down across from Daisy. “I’ve been thinking.”

“You wouldn’t tell me you were thinking without telling me what it is you’re thinking about, so what’s on your mind?”

“I was just wondering that maybe, before you have another session with John, perhaps I can take him out?”

Daisy set her pen down on one of the documents inside the file. “Where to?”

“You know, like Speedy’s, or something. Nothing far. I just thought that maybe we could do to have some time to talk. Outside of the flat.”

Daisy studied Harry’s face, wondering. “Just to Speedy’s?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then.” Daisy picked her pen back up. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. You aren’t going far, and certainly not to a place where alcohol is easy to get your hands on. I agree with you. It would be good for John to get out of the flat and spend some time with you.”

“…You mean it?”

“Why would I joke about that?”

Harry smiled and smoothed out her blouse. “Right. Do you mind if I go tell him the good news?”

“Be my guest.”

~

_While John and Harry were at Speedy’s…_

Sherlock decided to spend the day in his pajamas and blue dressing gown. When he discovered that John and Harry were going to be out of the flat for lunch, he seized the opportunity to hand over his kit to Daisy (he had placed the goodie bag in the dumpster when he had volunteered to take out the garbage earlier that morning). Seeing that Daisy was now idle, and Erin was off fetching more of John’s medication, Sherlock gathered his courage and sat down across from her.

“Sherlock.”

“…Daisy.”

“What can I do for you?”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “You can listen. Just like you did years before.”

Daisy’s expression, formerly full of cheer and welcome, fell. “What’s wrong?”

Pressing his lips into a thin line and letting his gaze drop to the floor, Sherlock reached into one of the pockets on the inside of his dressing gown and pulled out the black, leather kit and set it on the table. Daisy slowly reached out and grabbed the kit. Sherlock felt a chill course down his spine as she slowly opened the kit- his nails digging into this palms as she moved the zipper along the kit’s side.

Daisy examined the contents of the kit a few moments before closing it and setting it back upon the table.

“I’m going to let you start it off,” Daisy said.  “But before you do, no one’s angry with you.”

“…I dumped all of the heroin into the toilet last night. I put the bag it was in in the dumpster when I took out the trash this morning. I-I haven’t used any of it in two months.”

“Hmm. Why’d you decide to get rid of it?”

“I-I couldn’t keep it here. I couldn’t allow myself a way to relapse into my own addiction while John… was fighting his. I couldn’t be a hypocrite. I couldn’t tell him that I understand what he’s going through when I’ve barely managed to stay clean myself.”

“You’ve used since you’ve been out of rehab.”

Sherlock nodded. “Countless times. I’ve overdosed. More often than not, it was… intentional.”

Daisy sighed softly. “You’ve made the right choice. Is there any other drug paraphernalia in this flat?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I’ve always kept my stash in one place.”

“And you’ve disposed of it all? If I called in a drugs bust team right now, they wouldn’t find anything?”

“All that I had I flushed.”

She stood up and grabbed the kit. “Well, I will do away with this kit. You’ve given me all of the explanation that I need…You look anxious. Why don’t you make yourself a cuppa and wait for John and Harry to get back, eh?”

~

“We used to do this all of the time. Remember, John?”

“What, split chips?”

“No, silly. Go out to eat together. We did it practically every week when we were teenagers.”

John laughed. “Yeah, we did.”

“And no matter where we went, I’d always make you order first. And then I’d get whatever you got, even if I hated what you seem to love.”

“It’s good to see that you’ve finally broken out of that mindset.”

Harry picked out a particularly long and ketchup-covered chip from the basket. “Mainly because your tastes have worsened over the years.”

“Oi!”

She laughed. “I’m just joking. So, Mrs. Hudson actually runs this place?”

John nodded. “Don’t be a fool. That woman can turn cold quickly if she’s provoked. Sherlock and I came home one day to find her yelling at the manager. I would never have known that Mrs. Hudson had such a colorful vocabulary otherwise.”

“That sweet woman? Goodness. I bet that was a sight to behold.”

John grabbed a shorter chip. “You’d make a great gambler.”

Harry smirked. “You still have that sarcastic sense of humor.”

“It’s the most sophisticated type, and yet it’s the most fun.”

“…But you know why I liked doing things with you so much?”

John swallowed his chip. “What?”

“You got my mind off of things.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know, things.”

“No, I do not know ‘things,’ Harry.”

“I’m just saying that I didn’t have to be, well, fake with you. I didn’t have to think about what I said, or what I might have to hide. Now, do you know the ‘things’?”

“-Oh.”

“Exactly.”

…

“-Harry.”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you something? For clarification?”

“What?”

“When- when did you know that you were- uh- “

“Gay?”

“Uh, yes. Gay.”

Harry took a sip from her glass of soda. “In my first year of secondary school. And before you ask there was no “Ah-ha!” moment with me. I guess you can say that my “awakening” happened after a culmination of events, and each one revealed to me a different aspect of myself that ultimately lead to me accepting my own sexuality.”

John looked at the droplet of condensation flowing down his own glass of soda. “I hope you didn’t mind that I asked.”

“Not at all.”

“I’ve thought a lot about my relationship with Sherlock recently. In spite of everything that I could and probably should be thinking about.”

Harry folded her hands on her lap and looked at John with sympathetic eyes- the best and subtlest sign that she knew to give to him to show that she was listening.

“I wonder… if I had been more comfortable with myself earlier in my relationship with Sherlock, then our lives wouldn’t have exploded in our faces. If I had accepted that it was perfectly fine for me to be open about James… about everything really… Ah, who am I kidding? It makes no difference now, does it? Everything already happened.”

“You’re holding on to the past, John.”

“So what if I am?”

“So what? John, you’ve got to learn to let it go.”

He shifted his gaze to the half-empty basket between them. “It was all so fucked up. And yet it was easier than how it is now. How does that even happen?”

“…You remember what you told me? That night? _The_ night?”

“What did I say?”

“You told me to take Dad’s words with a grain of salt. You told me I would be able to leave soon, and that I should take my window of opportunity while I had it. You told me it was going to be alright, and that I didn’t have to hold on to any of the things that he had done to me. That all I had to do was get through it and then look upon my memories of him and laugh over whom he became.” She looked down at the basket as well. “Strange that it be many years later, when Clara and I were going back and forth between being a happy couple and vicious enemies, before I finally understood what you really meant. I had to let it go. I had to finally let her go.” She looked back up at John. “Ah, shit. I took over the conversation again, didn’t I. I’m sorry, I thought this would help you get away from all of this, not submerge you in it.”

John smiled. “No, it’s fine.” He sighed. “It’s all easier said than done, isn’t it? Letting go?”

“I can’t really think of anything that isn’t easier said than done. Other than speaking in and of itself.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Well, I don’t want to do too much of Daisy’s job, do I?”

“No, I guess not.”

“By the way, I talked to mom last night. She’s been nagging me about talking to you again. Feel up to talking to the old woman again?”

“Heh, sure.”


	19. When We Feel Loved Again  (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys!  
> This may be the last update for a week or so. My schedule is filling up with things that I need to accomplish, so I may not be able to update next week.  
> Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> My apologies for any mistakes.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

“You look rather uncomfortable today. Everything alright?”

John shifted in his place, uncrossing his legs only to cross them once more, this time with the opposite leg on top of the other. “No one ever sits here. The cushion isn’t as worn-in as it could be.”

“Ah, I see.” Daisy smiled. “Well, how was your little outing with Harry?”

“It went well.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“It’s great thing that you two are finally starting to make amends. I’m happy to see you two doing things together.”

John hummed in response. “We used to do that all the time.”

“I can imagine. Twins, even when they’re fraternal, can get quite close. If they’re not separated during childhood, of course.”

“…How’d you know we were twins?”

“Sherlock deduced it and told me all about it. Your records confirmed his observations.”

“Oh.” John rubbed the back of his neck, reminded of who he was living with. “Right.”

“I imagine you two were quite close when you were young, eh?”

“Oh, yes. In grade school, we were almost inseparable.”

“A little John and Harry hanging out together?” She giggled. “Oh, I would certainly love to see that.”

The corners of John’s mouth twitched upwards slightly. “Our mother didn’t want to be the type to dress her twin children in matching outfits. But, you’ve seen the way we dress. We both wear the same colors and patterns. And we always have. Our mother reluctantly had to buy similar clothes, since we’d object to doing otherwise.”

“It must have been trying at times- raising two twins who acted like they were joined at the hip?”

“I guess it was.” He looked down at his hands. “Harry asked me if I wanted to call her again.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told her I would be willing to talk to her.”

Daisy ran her thumb along the shiny, metal tip of her pen, getting a streak of black ink across her thumb as she did so. “Are you still feeling comfortable with talking to her again?”

“Ah- it’s just been so long since we’ve talked. She’s always happy to talk to me.”

“Are you happy to talk to your mother?”

John pressed his lips into a thin line and then released them. His lips were white from the pressure but quickly resumed their natural pink color once blood flow was allowed back into them. “It’s been so long, and she’s gotten so much better from where she was.” He paused. “Yes. I think I am.”

Daisy nodded in understanding.

“-And I think she’s… She’s really concerned about my predicament.”

“What do you think about your mum’s concern?”

“I honestly don’t know. She’s my mum. Of course she’s going to be concerned.”

“You seem awfully surprised by it.”

He sighed. “I guess. I don’t know.”

“Well, why do you think you would be surprised at her concern?”

John propped one arm up on the arm rest and leaned his head against his fist. “I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong? You seem to be taken back by it.”

_“I’m not taken back._ It’s nothing, really. My mum’s concerned about me. _It’s not a big deal.”_

Daisy cocked her head and smiled sympathetically. “John.”

“What?”

“Please calm down. I understand it’s a touchy subject- “

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But, there’s no reason to close yourself off like this.”

John huffed. _“Sorry.”_

_“John.”_

John leaned back further into the couch, clenched his eyes shut, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“Alright. Now, then. What made you so upset?”

John opened his eyes and let his arms rest at his sides. “I am surprised at her concern.” His head drooped. “And I’m glad for it.” He licked his lips. “She never really did. At least, I didn’t think so.”

“Why do you not think that she was concerned about you in the past?”

“Harry told me that I should learn to let go of things in the past, and I know she’s right. But, I look back upon her, and who she was, and what she let our father do to me and Harry, and I can’t help but think that she never really cared. I want to believe that she did, but she just never showed it. Does… Does that make any sense? I’m not even sure I’m making sense.”

“I think you’re doing just fine.”

He nodded. “Thanks. Sometimes I wonder if people get the point that I’m trying to get across to them. You know, on my blog. That’s why it took me so long to post anything on my blog after I thought Sherlock was dead. I felt that the world wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say, even if I did everything I could to try to clear his name and do his memory some justice.”

Daisy hummed in recognition. “I understand. I’ve read your blog and seen the time signatures on the posts.”

“And now, I’m talking to my mum, and I feel like I have that same mental block again. I’m not sure how I’m going to talk about the past with her. I don’t know what I’m going to even say once I talk to her again. I’ll probably end up saying something that I’ll regret.”

“Well, in my opinion, you have no reason to worry, John.”

“… What do mean?”

“I mean that you’ve already come out to her and revealed to her the reality of your alcoholism. That’s at least half of the battle. I think your mum is going to try to understand anything that you have to say. She’s not necessarily someone whom you should feel that you have to explain yourself to. I talked with her myself beforehand. She just wants to listen.”

John sighed. “I suppose so. She did seem like she was listening when I talked to her yesterday.”

“There.”

“…I just realized that I haven’t seen her in over seven years. The last time I saw her was before I was deployed.”

“I’m sure a lot has changed about the both of you since then.”

John couldn’t help but smile a little. “’Spose you’re right.”

“You seem like you were quite the momma’s boy when you were young.”

“What?”

Daisy smiled. “You seem like you would have hung around your mum when you weren’t with Harry.”

John ran his hands along his thighs. “Well, Harry and I couldn’t have spent all of our time together. It’s not like I was a socialite as a child. Never have been, to be honest. Mum was just around the house all the time.”

~

Sherlock turned over on Mrs. Hudson’s sofa, his hands in their usual position beneath his chin. Mrs. Hudson was in her kitchen rummaging around with pots and pans, probably preparing to cook something for everyone for the sixth time that week. John was upstairs talking with Daisy, so he had respectfully allowed them privacy in the upper flat and had even asked Mrs. Hudson if he could think on her sofa instead of barging into her flat and plopping himself down upon it. Mrs. Hudson, a bit taken back by his unusually kind demeanor, simply let her son-through-emotional-bond into her sitting room with a giggle.

As Sherlock lay upon her sofa, it quickly became apparent to him that Mrs. Hudson used to smoke her herbal soothers there.

But nonetheless, Sherlock remained focused on the task at hand. Greg had texted him earlier in absolute desperation, and begged Sherlock to at least guide him in the right direction into finding the killer of a middle-aged man from the details that he could give him through the phone. Sherlock obliged, and told Greg to give him the details surrounding the body and anything else he decided he needed to see. (Greg was a little taken back about describing of the insides of the dead man’s dresser to examine the man’s socks, but he still walked into the victim’s bedroom, which was adjacent to where she was found, strode over to the dresser, opened it up, and described what he saw to Sherlock.)

Now, Sherlock was processing all of the details in his mind, as well as creating mental replicas of the scene itself so that he could metaphorically visit the scene in question.

A part of him wondered whether he was doing the right thing to take on a case while John was going through his recovery. A part of him wondered how many errors he could possible make by not seeing the body in person and relying only on texts from Greg. A part of him wondered if he should even tell John about the case and get his input. Maybe it would even make things a bit easier for him.

He had everything worked out already, and Greg knew what John was going through, and it would do no good, in his mind, to let the killer walk free another second. Besides, the case was a seven at best. He removed his own mobile from his pocket and opened up the text conversation with Greg. He had never felt ashamed about going on a case without John before. Perhaps a little lonely, yes. But not ashamed.

He felt like he was lying to him- almost like he was going behind his back.

He hoped that, if the opportunity presented itself, that he could explain himself to John. Tell him why he had to stop the criminal before they murdered again to cover up the previous one. Tell him that he just had to take the case. And if he didn’t, he would make everything harder for them.

He hoped that John wouldn’t be mad, which is something he rarely ever did anymore.

~

Clenching his mug tightly, John pulled back the salmon curtains and looked out onto Baker Street. It was relatively slow that afternoon, most of the movement being concentrated on the streets. A wonderful day for a walk, if he felt like walking. But he was just as content to stand before the window and watch the world through the glass.

He sighed and took a long sip from his mug. His coffee- he hardly ever drank coffee- scalded his tongue and his throat. He swallowed it anyway. Sherlock, who was sitting in his armchair staring at the smiley face on the wall, glanced at him as he sighed before turning his attention back to the wall.

John gazed down upon the pavement in front of the flat. It was covered in little black spots from discarded gum. He had the unfortunate experience of getting the bottom of his shoe covered in the peppermint or spearmint, sugary gum many times before, twice in front of the flat.

“You’re right.”

Sherlock glanced back up at him.

“I’m right about what?”

“This city _is_ a cesspool.”

Sherlock smiled.  John took another audible sip of his coffee.

“Still, I like to think that there are a few good people in this city.”

“Oh, most certainly.” Sherlock fidgeted in his seat, causing the cushion beneath him to groan at the movement. “Much more than a few.”

“… Did you just say that there are good people in this city?”

“Mm.”

“I thought you hated humanity.”

“I do. I hate them because they’re idiots. But just because a person’s an idiot doesn’t explicitly mean that they’re an ass.”

“And how can you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Mr. I-face-the-darkness-of-the-universe, believe that?”

“Because I met you.”

John’s head snapped around to look at Sherlock, who returned this look with quite a smug one of his own.

“You seem surprised, John.” He stood up. “I’d thought you would have known by now that you’re the only reason I even make contact with humanity even more. Well, you and the cases. But you’re more important than the Work.”

John set his mug on the window sill and slowly moved towards Sherlock. Sherlock moved forward as well, reaching out and cupping John’s face. His thumb traced the bags under John’s eyes, which had slowly begun to disappear as John slept more and his body got through the final stages of physical withdrawal.

“You’re the most important thing in my life,” John said, his eyelids fluttering.

“And you to me.”

John felt tears welling up in his eyes. “Damn substance abuse.” He smiled. “Can’t hold myself together anymore.”

“Do I need to alert Daisy?”

John shook his head. “No. This is fine. It’s nothing awful. It’s… something good. Something wonderful.”

Sherlock removed his hand from John’s face and instead wrapped his arms around John’s torso. “I agree.”

John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulders. He hated to admit it, but he loved being as short as he was, since he could hide is face in Sherlock’s shoulders and neck without having to stand on his toes. “You keep me sane, Sherlock. And, despite it all, you’ve helped me to love again.”

“I’m glad. John…I couldn’t keep going if you were no longer here.”

“Me neither.”

Sherlock smirked. “This sort of attachment isn’t exactly healthy then, is it?”

“By our standards, it’s fine. It all depends, really. But still, I love you too much to risk losing you.”

“I suppose you’re right about that. And I can’t lose you either.”

Sherlock let go of John, and they spent a few moments hand-in-hand looking upon each other’s faces.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Me too.”

“How about we go make some sandwiches?”

“Sandwiches sound quite nice. I must warn you, though.”

“What is it?”

“I used the cheese that you liked in an experiment.”

…

“How the hell did you incorporate cheese into an experiment on a human organ?”

Sherlock laughed. “I had to extract a few of the artificial chemicals that they put in them. You know, you should really consider buying fresher cheese instead of the cheap, packaged kind.”

John shook his head. “Wow.” He laughed. “Only you would do that, my dear.” He let go of Sherlock’s hands. “Well, standing here isn’t going to help us make dinner.”

…

After Sherlock and John had made their sandwiches, they wrapped them both up in paper towels and sat down in their armchairs to eat them.

“I went down to see Mrs. Hudson today.”

John wiped a speck of mayonnaise from the side of his mouth. “Oh, really?”

“Mmm. She’s making a quiche again. The one that takes two days to make.”

“Ohh. I like her quiche.”

“It is very good, isn’t it?”

“Everything she makes is delicious.” John took a huge bit from his sandwich. “She’s an angel.”

“She is.” _You’ve got your opportunity, Sherlock._ “I-uh, I also solved a case today.”

John stopped mid-chew.

“You did? From this building?”

“Yep.” Sherlock said, popping the ‘p.’

“Sherlock. That’s amazing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’ve done it before, but I still think it’s amazing.”

“I thought you would be upset.”

“Why would I be upset?”

“Because I didn’t get your input on it.”

“You’ve solved cases without me all of the time.”

“I know. I-I thought you would be disappointed that you didn’t get to have any involvement with it.”

“No! That’s ridiculous. I’m glad you got the chance to start working again.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I’m already having to deal with enough already. I don’ really want to have to deal with your cries of boredom until I absolutely have to.”

Sherlock breathed out through his nose. Relief. “Good. That’s why I took it.”

And with that, they dropped the subject and instead began to argue about what they were going to watch on television while finishing their sandwiches. Sherlock insisted that for the love of God he was not going to watch that inaccurate detective show written by people who have never had any involvement with a criminal investigation before with John again, even though they ended up selecting the channel it was on when there was nothing else on that had their interest.

Daisy and Erin watched from the stairwell.

“They’re quite the domestics, aren’t they?” Erin asked quietly.

“In their own way,” Daisy replied.

“it’s just like watching animals in their own habitat.”

Daisy glanced at Erin. “You know, you could be right about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I'd give you guys some fluff. The next chapter is going to focus around John's mother once more, his father, and his time in the military. So, here's something nice before the story gets a little darker once more. I may be wrapping this story up soon. I've got the next few chapters planned out, and then we're looking at a potential end.
> 
> I swear, I make the worst typos in my stories. Ugh.


	20. When We Feel Loved Again (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There are mentions to both drug abuse as well as physical and mental abuse in this chapter. You all know by now that this is certainly a heavy-handed fic, but please, proceed with caution as always.  
> Sorry for the delay. I had a lot of work come my way, and unfortunately, my fandom life got put on the back burner.  
> BUT! It's Chapter 20! :D And I made it longer than normal to make up for the delay and to celebrate.  
> My apologies for any mistakes.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> I hope you enjoy it.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

John silently fiddled with the unraveling ends of his jumper sleeve, listening to the tones his mother’s mobile emitted as it too waited for her to pick. Harry stood in front of the second window in the sitting room, arms crossed, jaw set, and eyes set on some conspicuous location in the outside world, and Daisy had resumed her normal place in the kitchen, along with Erin. Sherlock, per John’s request, sat adjacent to him in his preferred chair, his hands resting in a prayer position beneath his chin- a usual sign of deep thought for Sherlock, though at this time, he kept his eyes open and trained upon John.  John wondered if the room was silent enough as to allow them to hear his mother’s phone ringing as well.

A click. “Hello?”

He cleared his throat. “Hey…”

“Oh, John! I didn’t know whether it would be you or Harry calling me this time.”

“Um, yeah. It’s me.”

“It’s so good to finally get a chance to talk to you again. It’s only been a day, but it feels like it’s been forever since I spoke to you.”

“It’s good to hear from you too.”

“So. How are you feeling?”

“Better since the last time we spoke. A lot better.”

“I’m so happy to hear that!” Genuineness was evident in her voice, and it was pleasing to John’s ear. “You’ve had me right worried.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t, dear.”

“How have you been doing?”

“Oh, I’ve been doing just fine myself.”

John, in his unoccupied ear, heard either Erin or Daisy shuffle through papers in the kitchen. It occurred to him that this was not exactly a conversation that he wanted to have with other people around.

“What- well, do you mind if I ask you something a little more- I don’t know- “John stood up and made for the bathroom. Harry turned around and looked at John as he walked.

“What do you need to ask me, John?”

John shut the door behind him in the bathroom, not bothering with the lights. The door that connected the bathroom with his and Sherlock’s bedroom was open, and light floated into the bathroom from their bedroom’s window. He was glad that no one had taken it upon themselves to follow him. But then again, why would they, really?

“I was wondering what you’ve been doing all of this time? When Harry and I haven’t been there?”

“Oh.” Silence and a ruffled huff. “Well, you already know that I left your father.”

“Yes. I do. But what did you do once you left him? Once you were free from him?’

“I waited for the longest time before doing anything, to be honest. I found a moderately-priced cottage and a menial office job that would offer me enough pay to get myself by.”

“Alright. But what did you really do? What gave you some sort of purpose?”

“John, what’s wrong with you?”

“Please, just answer my question.”

…

“I found myself happy again. Not living with you father. Having my own job and my own place again. I had my own independence. And I didn’t have to live in fear.” She laughed small-like. “I had finally come to the realization that I didn’t have to take anything from anyone anymore. And I could be my own person again. That’s what gave me purpose. Maintaining that independence that I had finally come to realize was mine for the taking.

“John, is that the answer you were looking for? It sounded as though you wanted a specific answer from me.”

He smiled. “Yes, that answer was good. I-uh, I was looking for a specific answer. At least, one that would give me the clarity that I needed. Thanks, mum.”

“No problem, Johnny.”

“Can I ask you something else?”

“If you don’t want me to have to get all philosophical again, then sure.”

“Would you mind coming here? I mean, have you and Daisy even talked about you coming here?”

“Uh- yes, we have.”

“Would you even want to come up here?”

“If your doctor allows it, then yes. I could always make arrangements. Especially since that suit fellow offered to help me take off.”

“That ‘suit fellow’?”

“Yes. ‘Suit fellow.’”

“Did this ‘suit fellow’ have a large nose as well as a large receding hairline?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And was he ginger? And did he speak in a very posh way that at times can be very annoying and even hard for the average being to understand?”

“You sound flustered. Do you know this guy?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh. Are you two not on good terms?”

“To a certain degree.” He looked around the bathroom, wondering if Mycroft had bugged the flat again, and if he had bothered put one in there. Likely not. But it was likely that he was listening in on this call, or at least, an associate was. “I’m actually kind of glad he talked to you.”

“Well, he did leave me feeling a bit… intimidated. But, he did promise that he would get me an extended vacation and a plane to London if I ever felt that I wanted to come and see you.”

“Great. You should come. Do you want to tell Daisy that you’re coming, or should I?”

“Nah. I have her number. I’ll do it.”

“Alright. So, uh, really should just talk to you when you come, right? I mean, I know Harry said that you were wanting to talk to me again, but I didn’t know if you had something you wanted to address with me.”

“Oh, honey. I just wanted to know how you were doing. You can’t blame a mother for wanting to talk to her son, can you?”

“No, I suppose I can’t.”

“And if there’s really anything that you and I need to discuss, it’s probably better done face-to-face, at this point. And since I should be able to get there pretty soon, we might as well wait. I mean, if it’s pressing that we talk about something else- “

“No! I’m fine. We can talk when you get here.”

“You sure? You don’t actually want to hear me ramble anymore?”

“You do not ramble. My landlady rambles, but you don’t. I forgot how much I liked to talk to you.”

“Well, that just made my pride inflate like a new tire.”

John laughed at that awful metaphor. “Alright. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Of course. I love you.”

John huffed. “I love you too, mum.”

They both hung up at around the same time. John left the bathroom, walked over to Harry, who was still standing before the window, and gave her back her phone. She watched him walk over and sit back down in his chair before turning back to the window, a small, sad smile on her lips.

~

The following morning, John woke up and found his face buried in Sherlock’s curls and distinctly feminine voices talking to each other and laughing in the sitting room. He lifted his head up both to breathe and to distinguish what they were saying.

“… would have come here last night if I wasn’t so tired. Planes really take it out of me, nowadays.” _Mum._

“I understand, Ms. Watson. I can’t do much nowadays without wearing myself out. I’ve got a hip.”

“So, mum, how do you think he’ll react to seeing you?”

“Well, John knew I was coming. We just… We haven’t been keeping appearances. So, that might come as a bit of a shock.”

John got up out of bed, not really caring if he jostled Sherlock. Sherlock, having actually been jostled from John’s sudden excitement, lifted his head up from his pillow and looked at him with a perplexed look, but when he heard the voices in the sitting room as well, his perplexed look morphed into a smile of understanding. He too got up and nodded in the direction of the door, signaling to John that he had better go through that door and see his mother.

John shook his head to get rid of the sleep that still clouded his thoughts, opened their bedroom door, and walked into the kitchen with Sherlock in tow. Five women were concentrated in the sitting room in random places: Mrs. Hudson, Daisy, Erin, Harry, and Mrs. Watson. Ms. Watson was seated in John’s armchair, so he could only see the back of her. But, as soon as she heard John and Sherlock’s footsteps in the kitchen, she turned around to gaze upon her son.

Ms. Watson, to put it simply, had aged well. Her hair was mostly grey, but she wore it long, longer than what the average elderly woman would consider doing, and it framed her face quite well. Her eyes, though they were wrinkled and darker with the knowledge of her years, remained clear and full of life- a kind of new-found life, to be exact, and their fires burned even brighter as soon as she laid eyes upon her son. Her lips, though they had begun to shrivel up, had still retained their Cupid’s bow shape and stood out from her face thanks to the help of burgundy lipstick. A scar below her left eye was just barely visible, and Sherlock quickly pieced together how she had gotten that scar, and it deeply angered him to know that such a gracious woman had been struck, and so close to her eyes, no less. Her attire was an indication that she lived something of a minimalist lifestyle, with only a clean white blouse and a long, khaki skirt on her back, and she was just as short as John and Harry were.

“Johnny…”

He slowly walked around the table in the middle of the kitchen and approached his mother. She stood up and placed her hands on John’s cheeks.

“John.”

“Good morning, Mum.”

“Oh, my poor, poor boy.”

He wrapped his hands gently around her forearms. “What is it?”

“You’ve finally started sweeping your hair back. It looks nice.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Ms. Watson looked behind John and found Sherlock standing there, his hands clasped behind his back. She immediately let go of her son’s face and walked towards Sherlock to closely examine the man.

“So, you’re the man who’s going to be my new son-in-law?” she asked in an intrigued tone.

“Mum!”

Her eyes darted from his toes all the way up the most erratic curl atop Sherlock’s head. “Splendid. Splendid indeed.”

“Thank you, Ms. Watson,” Sherlock replied, extending one of his large hands out to her.

“Please, call me Thelma.” Thelma grabbed his hand and gave it a hard, yet resolute shake.

“I trust it you had a nice flight, Thelma?”

“Oh, yes. Your brother was kind enough to procure me a seat on a private jet.”

“We’re all glad that you made it here safely,” Harry said.

“Oh! And I almost forgot!” Mrs. Hudson made for the door as quick as her hip would carry her. “I finished my breakfast quiche earlier this morning. I had better go fetch us all some while it’s still hot.”

The room erupted into a chorus of it’s-alrights and no-you-don’t-have-tos. Mrs. Hudson, however, was not having any of their complaints, and still went down into her own flat to prepare their food like the hostess she was known for being.

In her absence, Daisy addressed the room. “If Ms. Thelma is feeling up to it, I would like to have a session with just the Watsons, since everyone in John’s immediate family is now here.”

There were no objections, and soon, Mrs. Hudson returned carrying a tray of plates covered with big pieces of her breakfast quiche.

~

All three of the Watsons sat on the couch: Harry on the left, Thelma on the right, and John sandwiched in the middle. Daisy watched each of them carefully. None of them appeared to be nervous, although John did begin fiddling with the unraveling threads of his jumper sleeve once he sat down.

“So, I would like to thank both of you for showing your support for John’s recovery and coming to this session,” Daisy began. “I’m sure you’re both probably aware of some of the guidelines for an average talk therapy session, but I am going to reiterate them just so we’re clear. This is a non-judgmental environment, for starters, and nothing that is said in this session will be talked about again once it is over. The only time I have to tell anyone what someone said during this session would be if there was particular harm currently being done to someone in this group or outside of this group, essentially. I’d have to report current abuse or if someone was planning on hurting themselves or someone else.”

She drew in a deep breath. “Sorry. Protocol’s really a mouthful sometimes, but it’s necessary in many cases. But now to business. I called you all here because I’d like to talk about John’s childhood with John, along with people from his childhood in general.”

“Of course,” Thelma answered.

“We’ll answer anything you want to ask us,” Harry concurred.

“Very well, then. And, John?”

He perked up at his name being called.

“Are you still alright with having a session with your family?”

John nodded. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”

“Good.” Daisy removed her pen from the elastic strap that kept her notebook closed. She began to maneuver it between her fingers. “Now, we can actually start. I’d like to start with discussing the substance abuse that has occurred within John’s immediate family.”

Harry made a noncommittal noise. “I’m a rehabilitated alcoholic. Have been for about a year. Been an alcoholic in-and-out of rehab for more than eight years.”

“His father was an alcoholic too, and still is.” Thelma sighed. “I’ve had LSD tablets a few times, and I’ve abused prescription drugs before, but it’s never been anything long-term.”

“What caused you to turn to alcohol and drugs?”

“I was going through a rough patch with my long-term partner, Clara,” Harry answered. “We had been together since I had come out, and I didn’t want to lose her, since I felt like I was proving something to my parents by keeping her around. It didn’t make our relationship any better, and we ended up going through a vicious cycle of break-ups and make-ups for years before she finally decided she couldn’t keep holding herself back by being with me. I drank to help myself forget.”

“I was young and rebellious when I took LSD tablets,” Thelma answered. “I took them at a few parties, and one of the times I took them, they made me paranoid, so I never touched them again. When Harry and John were young, my doctor put me on anti-anxiety medication. George was starting to fall deeper into alcoholism, and our relationship was beginning to take a dark turn, so I started taking more and more pills every time I was supposed to take them. I did this for about a year before I decided that I wanted to stop. I had the doctor take me off of that medication, though I never told him why.”

Daisy wrote some things down. “Is there anything you would like to share right now as well, John?”

John waved his hand dismissively. “I started drinking to deal with some trauma. That’s- that’s what it really was, overall.”

Daisy watched him for a moment before inconspicuously scribbling in her notebook. “So, John and Harry’s father- George, was it? He was an alcoholic too?”

Thelma nodded. “Yes. Ever since I was pregnant with the kids. It was so soon after we were married, too. George was always the rebel. Always the free-spirit. Marriage wasn’t going to keep him from living the freestyle lifestyle that he wanted. I was just like him. His attitude towards life was one of the things that attracted me to him. When I found out that I was pregnant, I told him that I thought we should settle down, for the kids’ sake. He didn’t object, but I do think he mourned the loss of his freedom, even if, at many times, his freedom involved him committing crimes and abusing substances other than alcohol.”

“He still was the ‘rebellious’ man that you married once we were born,” John interjected. “He rebelled against the statutes your marriage. He slept around. You knew it. We all knew it!”

“Yes, I did, John,” Thelma said. “And I did nothing about it.”

Daisy leaned forward. “It sounds like you’re still a little angry at your mother, John.”

“No. I’m not angry with her. I’m angry at what she did.”

“And what did she do, John?”

“He was never around. He went straight from one of his jobs to one of his women, and he gave no recognition to any of us. And when he did come home, he was off-his-ass drunk and took to sloppily attacking one of us if we did something that angered him.” He swallowed. “And she did nothing to stop it. She just sat back and cried over everything.”

“I know.” Thelma wrapped her arms around herself. “I should have done more. I know. I regret everything. And I’m sorry.”

John took a moment to process that before sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, you don’t have to be sorry for anything. I’m not pointing a finger at you. I know you’re different now.”

“So, there was abuse existing within the family?” Daisy asked.

“Yes,” Harry replied. “Both physical and mental. It was always from our father.”

“What sort of things were done on his part?”

 “I endured verbal abuse. Especially after I came out. I would end up having panic attacks from how loud he would yell his obscenities when I was young. Sometimes he would yell me into a corner. Every so often he would use his hands and attack me. Physically, not sexually,” Harry answered.

“He used his hands and random objects on me,” Thelma said. “He would always apologize afterwards, at least to me. He would tell me how horrible he felt for letting his anger get in the way.”

“He liked to use his belt on me.” John removed his fingers from his nose-bridge. “He would strike me across the bum so hard I had trouble sitting for days. He smiled when he saw me struggling to get comfortable in a chair, and he’d say, ‘If you hadn’t done whatever, you wouldn’t have to sit like that.’ It’s really nothing, now that I think about it.”

Everyone but John felt a wave of shock wash over them.

“John- honey, it’s not nothing.”

“Mum’s right, John. I saw the bruises on your lower back once. It sure as hell wasn’t nothing.”

“Look!” John held his hands up in the air. “I said how I felt about it. I don’t think about it anymore. I don’t like to think about it, so I don’t. You said I had to move on anyway, didn’t you Harry?”

“Moving on doesn’t mean ignoring things that you don’t want to think about,” Harry said. “Moving on means accepting that it happened and getting on with your life.”

“Maybe that’s how _you_ moved on from dad. This is how I did.”

“That’s- “

“Harry,” Daisy said solemnly. “Let’s allow John to explain what he’s feeling. Now John, what do you mean by not wanting to think about what happened between you and your father?”

John sighed, feeling himself becoming more and more frustrated. “I just believe that it’s better for me if I ignore it. I can be fine if I don’t think about his abuse, and therefore, it doesn’t affect me. Looking back on it now, it’s nothing that should occupy my thoughts. Happens to tons of people, and it happened in our family. I was fortunate enough that I could endure it and that I could sometimes get between my father and Harry. Simple.”

Thelma put one of her hands on her son’s arm, causing him to snap up and look at her.

“Look,” she began. “I know you’re still mad at what your father and I put you through when you were young. Don’t try to tell me otherwise, because I know that’s bullshit. No! Close your mouth. Just listen to me. I know you don’t like to talk about what happened, but I know that it’s been affecting you all of these years. We should’ve- I should’ve taught you better coping strategies. I should have guided you two at that time, and I should have pulled you two out of that house. I couldn’t do that then, and that’s one of the many things that I had no control over in my life. But please, John, you have to tell us what you feel. I- we can’t help you if you don’t. I want you to get better. I want to make things right for you. But we can’t do that if you’re going to live in denial about things that have hurt you.”

John looked away from his mom.

“John, is there anything you would like to say to your mother in response to that?” Daisy offered.

It took a moment, but John nodded. “I feel like such a coward.”

Thelma squeezed his hand tighter. “John, you’ve never been a coward!”

“He said I was. He always said I was a coward. Whenever I would cry out, or try to shield myself from his belt, he would call me a coward for not facing him. He would always brush over anything I did in school, or give me some excuse as to why he wouldn’t go to one of my rugby matches. And the times that he was around me, he was whipping me for doing something that displeased him. Everything displeased him. I- I felt like such a failure then. Like a screw-up.” His bottom lip trembled. “And I can’t help but feel that way every time I think about the man. Because then I think about everything that’s happened in my personal life over the past seven years, and I’m reminded of everything that he did to me. And all that he said to me.”

Thelma wrapped her son in her arms. Harry scooted over on the couch and placed her hand on John’s shoulder.

“I thought that maybe he was right. I couldn’t help every soldier that came into my medical tent. I couldn’t stop the events of the Moriarty affair from happening to Sherlock. I couldn’t stop my wife and my kid from dying. I was a failure and a coward. I felt so disgusted with myself for allowing my life to fall apart and for turning to drink to help it. I’m- I’m so sorry, mummy.”

“You don’t have to feel that way anymore,” Thelma whispered in John’s ear. “You don’t have to believe that any longer.”

“I know,” John replied, sniffling. “I’ve been trying to let go of that mindset. I don’t want to live in this hole anymore. I don’t want to be the person he thought I was.”

“You’re the person Dad thought you were only in theory, John,” Harry said. “You’re everything that he said you couldn’t be.”

Daisy put her pen inside the notebook and closed it. She was happier with the results of this session than she thought she would be, and she could not help but silently agree with what the two Watson women were saying.

“How about we take a break?” Daisy announced. “Yes, I think taking a break would be beneficial. I’ll go refill your mugs, if you would prefer to have more tea.”

“Thank you, Daisy,” Harry replied softly, handing Daisy the mugs on the table before them.

“I’m going to make it up to you,” Thelma whispered to her son. “I’m going to make up for all of the years we were apart.”

“Thank you,” John whispered.

“Do we need to call Sherlock up here?” Harry asked.

John shook his head against his mother’s shoulder. “It’s not a ‘Vatican Cameos’ moment yet.” He lifted his head.  “I think I might be able to keep myself together for now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're looking at two additional chapters as well as an epilogue, and then this story will be wrapping up. It's pretty set in stone, as of right now.  
> I want to thank you for all of your continued support. It means a lot to me. I know I say that a lot, but seeing the view count on this story climb higher, and knowing that you guys come back to read the new chapters... It makes my day, man.  
> Did any of you see the Holmes and Watson, Professor Snape, and the Doctor and Rose allusions in today's episode of MLP:FiM? No? Just me? Okay.  
> I guess I'll go play Undertale or something now. I've always wanted to do the Genocide route, but I can never bring myself to do it.  
> See you guys!


	21. When We Learn to Move On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Sorry I didn't post last week. The semester's almost over, and I have a ton of work right now. (Hint: Advanced Placement courses).  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy it?  
> My apologies for any mistakes. I looked through this chapter with a fine-toothed comb, but I could have always missed something.  
> Thanks for all of your support.  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

After that therapy session, Daisy, having great trust that John would be watched and would be prevented from giving into any possible temptation, suggested that the Watson family, along with Sherlock, go out and spend some time together. Glad to get out for some fresh air, the group climbed into a car prepared by Mycroft per Daisy’s request and went to a restaurant on the other side of Westminster.

Daisy and Erin stayed back at the flat. Erin sat upon the sofa, pouring over a textbook, while Daisy was standing upright and pacing before her, her feet touching the same flowers in the pattern on the rug upon the floor.

“I know what my next action shall be,” Daisy announced after a period of silence that contained nothing than the creaking of the floor boards as Daisy paced and the rustling of paper as Erin advanced through the pages.

“What’s on your mind, boss?”

Daisy stopped and looked at Erin. “I’m going to call Sherlock and John in for a therapy session. We’ll see how that goes. I may do another session with John and his mom. If I can see that he’s in no danger, and that we’ve come enough along in the recovery of both himself and his relationships, I say we head back for the office and move John onto weekly therapy sessions. We’ll present him with the option of going somewhere else, but he’ll likely want to stay with our practice since we’ve come this far with him.”

“Mind if I make a slight comment?” Erin asked, looking over her reading glasses at Daisy and smiling.

“Speak,” Daisy replied.

“You sure have made a lot of exceptions for Dr. Watson,” Erin began. “Don’t worry. I’m not saying you’ve made some bad decisions. I think that the path that you chose for Dr. Watson has yielded some positive rewards for him and the others. Your unorthodox methods have re-established communication with what could arguably some of the most important people in John’s life. But you have virtually gone against many of the treatment suggestions already outlined as standard.”

“Well, Erin,” I have but one response to that.” Daisy resumed pacing. “This isn’t the first patient that I have ‘bent-the-rules’ for. I’ve made exceptions for tons of people who have been trusted to my care and professional expertise. When I was an intern, and when I had been put in charge of taking care of Sherlock for the first few weeks of his stay at the rehabilitation center, I would sneak him biscuits from the employee lounge. Do you know why?”

“I don’t know.” Erin said. “Why did you?”

“Because I knew he was reacting terribly to the medicine we were giving him,” Daisy answered. “The facility handed out the pills to the patients in little plastic cups, along with water in a similar cup. We had tried giving him similar medications, and the one that we had finally settled on giving him still made him sick, although not as bad as the others. I was tired of having to clean him up every time he got sick, and I knew he was too, so I decided that it might be better I had given him at least some sort of food before he went to take his pill. Sure enough, those chocolate chip biscuits helped settle his stomach, and he hardly got sick again, now that the pills were working without contention.”

“Why didn’t you just keep searching for another medication to give him?” Erin asked, closing her textbook and setting it beside her on the sofa. “Or, if the medication was meant to be taken with food, why did no one else seek to provide that for him?”

“Ah, well, the psychiatrist that Sherlock was given was a bit of a dick.” Daisy smiled. “I think that’s why Sherlock liked me so much back then. I was trying to give him some relief. And I wasn’t acting like a total asshole to him either. The doctor, Dr. Forsenburg, was a man close to retirement age who was getting pretty fed up with having to deal with patient’s day-in and day-out. He was, essentially, the first patient that I handled entirely by myself.”

Daisy clapped her hands together. “But! You asked why I bent the rules for John Watson. I knew that when Mycroft Holmes told me that I would be dealing with Sherlock’s flat mate that I would have to do just that. Everyone that he keeps close to him is unorthodox, so sometimes, in order to help someone, you have to employ some unorthodox methods of healing. Especially our science, Erin.”

Daisy turned towards the window. “Our science is unlike those the world has seen before, Erin. It’s medicinal, but there is so much more to treating a patient than just CAT scans and pills that we should be striving to improve. There’s so much that should be measured that you simply can’t on a physical level. Memories. Events. Unspoken words and emotions. It takes a tray covered with shiny, metal tools for a surgeon to remove a person’s organs. It takes time, patience, kind yet truthful words, and trust for a psychiatrist to help the patient draw the true potential out of themselves, despite the chaos that might be happening in their mind that is preventing them from doing so.”

“Well-spoken, boss,” Erin said and picked up her book again.

“Ah, thank you, Erin.” Daisy looked away from the window, her head beginning to ache from holding her face under the sunlight. “I’m glad you like what I said. Maybe, once you get your PhD and start doing more than just getting the pills from the chemist and filling out my reports for me you’ll understand what it means.” Daisy smiled. “But yes, let’s have our next session between John and Sherlock. I’d like to give them a little more attention right now.”

~

The following day, Daisy, accompanied by her pen and notebook, sat down with John and Sherlock in the sitting room and went over all of the usual protocol that she had to regurgitate every time she introduced a new person into one of the therapy sessions. Both men only appeared to be slightly nervous to be faced with a therapy session administered by her, but she attributed that to the fact that they had both already endured her methods before and were probably drawing a great deal of personal strength from one another, given the two clasped hands that were clasped in between them.

“Well, let’s get started then, shall we?” Daisy absentmindedly crossed her legs. “How about you two tell me how you met? I haven’t heard the whole story.”

“We met at the morgue at St. Bart’s,” John said. “A little over six years ago, actually. A mutual friend introduced us to each other.”

“I see.” Daisy said. “And you two just sort of hit it off from that point?”

“Pretty much,” John replied. “I began moving in the very next day. After I had killed a cabbie in order to protect him, of course.”

“Ah, yes, I read that part on your blog,” Daisy said. “Now, when exactly did you two begin to have feelings for the other?”

“About a month after I had moved in,” John said. “I might have felt something earlier, but I just didn’t know how to interpret what I was feeling. That’s just when I finally realized that I was starting to fall in love.”

“The first day,” Sherlock murmured. “That very morning.”

John sat there, stunned.

“That… very first time we meet, you loved me?” John asked.

“Think about how nicely I treated you, John, compared how you know I treat other strangers,” Sherlock said quietly. “I wanted to impress you.”

“Well, you certainly succeeded in doing that,” John whispered, which everyone could hear since the flat was quiet.

“Why do you think that you two were so attracted to each other?” Daisy asked.

“He’s brilliant,” John began. “He’s handsome. He’s a total cock sometimes, and yet he still has more compassion in him than half of the people in this city.”

“He’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man,” Sherlock said. “He’s that and even more. He’s the only human being that I know, for a fact, will always be there for me.”

“I imagine seeing John falling prey to an addiction like you did wasn’t easy, then?” Daisy asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I-I knew the signs of alcoholism, and I knew how much he was worsening. And, I thought that maybe, if I pushed him away, it would motivate him to stop going down that path he was choosing. I only edged him further along.”

“Does that mean you blame yourself for John’s alcohol addiction?”

Sherlock nodded. “I do. Most of the problems he drank alcohol over were caused by me, or at least my influence.”

John’s mouth fell open. “Sherlock, that’s preposterous!” John interjected.

Daisy put her hand up. “John, let’s let Sherlock explain himself a bit more.” She looked at Sherlock. “What sort of problems in John’s life do you think that you have caused?”

“Everything,” Sherlock said. “If I had just been smarter- faster, I could have avoided the whole Moriarty affair, and I wouldn’t have had to put John through all of that misery after I had faked my death. And he never would have married Mary or would have had to go through the pain of realizing is wife was a liar, having to nurse me back to health after I had been shot, and enduring the loss of both his wife and his child.” Sherlock looked away. “My mistakes… always come around and hurt him.”

Daisy sighed softly, recalling the brief conversation she had had with Mycroft before being assigned to John’s case in which Mycroft informed her of all of this.

“You shouldn’t be blaming yourself,” John said, his voice slightly raised. “You were caught in the crossfire of all of that too. You told me what you were doing during those two years that you were away. You were the one who got shot and soon after imprisoned because you tried to protect me. You didn’t just sit by and watch as everything exploded in our faces, Sherlock.”

“I still could have done a lot more,” Sherlock replied.

“What could you have done, Sherlock? Hm?”

Sherlock was silent.

“Exactly,” John said. “You can’t even think of anything off of the top of your head.”

“John,” Daisy said.

“I’m sorry,” John huffed. “I just can’t understand why he feels the need to put this on himself. He always does this. He always feels like he has to take responsibility for everything. Especially in instances like this.”

“I caused all of this,” Sherlock murmured. “No amount of arguing is going to change that.”

“Sherl- “John stopped himself, shaking his head.

“John,” Daisy said hesitantly. “Why don’t you explain to Sherlock why you think that he’s not responsible for what’s happened to the both of you?”

John licked his lips and nodded. “Very well.” He sighed and turned to Sherlock. “I honestly don’t think that you caused me to become an alcoholic. Okay? You didn’t. Some things, like the baby’s death, could not have been prevented. And you’ve been forgiven for what happened with Moriarty for quite some time now. I meant what I said. You are still the best and the wisest man that I have ever known. And I was glad to take care of you after you had been shot. Gave me an excuse to be with you over Mary.”

John’s hand tightened around Sherlock’s. “You put too much on yourself. I’m an alcoholic, because _I_ couldn’t stop. You did enable me, I will give you that, but I probably would have gotten that bad anyway. Okay?”

Sherlock, who had propped his arm up on the arm rest and had pinched his nose, closed his eyes and nodded. “I’m sorry. I thought that maybe a part of you blamed me, so- “

“What? Sherlock, no! I don’t put any of this on you. I’m trying to let go. I don’t want to shift the blame to you.”

“Oh…thank you. I’m so happy we’ve left that time behind and we don’t have to deal with anything involving criminal masterminds and assassins again. That will require for me to forgive myself and for you to completely recover in order for us to do that, but I want to move on.”

“I do too,” John replied. “I don’t want us to get caught up on all of this. We’ll go nuts if we keep don’t put it all behind us.”

“John, we already are.”

John and Sherlock started laughing at that.

Daisy felt a smile tug at her lips, but she kept her mouth in its normal position. “Since we’re putting everything out in the open, is there anything you two would like to say to each other? Anything at all, as long as you’re comfortable sharing it?” She looked at Sherlock, who had opened his eyes and could see that she was primarily directing the question at him. John took note of this and looked at Sherlock as well.

“Um,” Sherlock began. “If we’re revealing everything to each other… If we’re being honest, then there is something that I still have to tell you.”

“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked, getting just a bit more nervous.

Sherlock looked at Daisy, then at John, and finally at his lap. “I’ve had a stash in this flat since before you moved back in. I’ve been clean for two months. But, I figured, in order for me to help you and not be a complete hypocrite, I flushed the drugs and handed my kit over to Daisy.”

John was silent.

“Are you upset?” Sherlock asked.

“…No, I’m not,” John said. “I’m a little relieved, actually. I’m glad you had the guts to tell me this.”

“I didn’t think it was necessarily fair for me to keep drugs around the flat and have a way to keep giving in to my addiction when we had to remove all of the alcohol in the flat because of yours.”

“Is there anything else that you want to say to Sherlock in response to that?” Daisy asked John.

“Yes, I do, actually,” John answered. “Um, number one, thank you for telling me, Sherlock. And, number two, thank you for being willing to give that up completely for me.”

“I knew you were trying to fight your addiction for me, and I wanted to do the same for you,” Sherlock said, his bottom lip trembling. “We both have let things get farther than we should have.”

John smiled at this, his eyes growing glossy with tears. “Come here,” he whispered and pulled Sherlock into a hug.

…

Mycroft, having watched this entire session play out on a computer screen thanks to the hidden camera and audio bugs that he had placed in the sitting room, leaned back in his chair and sighed. Hiring Daisy had been one of the best decisions he had ever made in regards to his younger brother and Doctor John Watson.

Anthea came into the office, her wedges clicking against the metal floor. “Sir, the Prime Minister is on the line for you.”

“Thank you, Anthea,” he replied, smiling at her as he normally did with anyone who brought him even more problems to handle, though the smile that he gave her now was albeit very genuinely happy.

Anthea noticed the change in his smile, the hint of hatred no longer evident within it. “Sir, are you alright?”

He turned back to the monitor. “Oh, I’m quite well, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so obnoxious with naming these chapters. XD
> 
> By the way, there are currently over 10,000 views on all of my stories on AO3 combined. That's crazy! So thank you guys for reading my stuff and being all-around cool people.


	22. When We Exorcise Our Strongest Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. I hope you all are enjoying the summer.   
> Sorry for going a little incognito for the past few weeks. You all must know how hectic the end of a semester can be. I just wanted to have a little bit of time to myself to enjoy the freedom.   
> That being said, I hope you enjoy this chapter. My apologies for any mistakes.   
> WARNING: This chapter contains talk of PTSD and infant death. Please take caution.   
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.   
> Thank you.   
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

Things within the flat had progressed quite beautifully, in Daisy’s eyes. She had a few more sessions with the Watson family, carefully uncovering suppressed emotions and childhood memories laced with long-withstanding miscommunication and tension generated by years of silence, before allowing Harry and Mrs. Watson to return to their lives and depart their promises of checking up on John whenever they could to the man himself.  John, who was happy for all of their support and the chance to rekindle his relationship with them, was honestly a bit glad to see them leave, just because the flat was crowded with them constantly spending their day inside of it, and John simply wanted more time to be alone with Sherlock now that he was beginning to feel better physically.

Daisy continued to involve Sherlock in John’s recovery whenever she could, which was seldom now, since John was steadily starting to pull himself out of his predicament. Daisy, however, was still cautious of possible setbacks in his recovery, and though he had displayed no signs of any possible stagnation in his recovery, Daisy knew John would be tempted to fall back into his habit, or at least a pit of some sort of helplessness, now that she had gradually allowed John more freedom than he had initially been given.

Regardless, she felt that her services within 221B Baker Street were no longer an absolute necessity, and as a result, she stationed Erin back at her office and only called her to the flat if she needed something from the office or anywhere else in the outside world. John had opened up to her about a lot of things during their brief discussions together, especially about events that occurred within his time at Baker Street and in relation to his current romantic partner (which opening up about had greatly improved John’s self-confidence, and talking about things such as the bonfire and Sherlock’s death and nearly fatal shooting gave John a great amount of relief), and for that, she was becoming content with her work (and, as a side-note, she was sure she was going to be content with the compensation that Mr. Mycroft Holmes would be willing to give her for her success).

However, despite everything she had managed to accomplish, and everything that John had accomplished, she felt that she had gotten John to touch on everything in his life except the things that might have contributed to his low amount of self-worth and alcoholism.

So, on one of the last sessions before she was planning on leaving the two lovebirds of 221B in peace to rebuild their nest and moving John onto weekly sessions at her office, she decided to bring up those very problems to John.

“I’ve heard that you have some dastardly nightmares sometimes,” she began.

“Oh, sure,” John replied. “Everyone does. Now and then.”

“Yes, everyone does, don’t they? I have them quite often. I was diagnosed with PTSD when I was younger.”

John looked at her perplexedly, like a celebrity in a drug scandal that had been asked to address it by a pesky reporter at a televised event. “You were?”

“Yes, I was. My family got into a bad car accident when I was a teenager. I was hurt, along with my mum. Everyone who was injured made a recovery- a true miracle that I’m thankful occurred in my situation. But sometimes, I’ll have a dream where I’m in the car again, and I’ll go through it again, sometimes with a worse outcome. Or maybe I’ll simply find myself in the hospital, with machines attached to every unscathed part of my flesh. I actually hate hospitals, you know.”

John laughed small-like, since he wasn’t sure if that was the correct response that he was supposed to give her. _Was she trying to be ironic?_ “A doctor that doesn’t like hospitals? Bit of a paradox, isn’t it?”

Daisy smiled. “Yes, I know. But I seldom notice my fear when I’m working. However, if I’m at a hospital for more personal reasons, then I will certainly feel anxious about being inside a hospital.”

John laughed. “I can’t believe this. I mean, I’m not judging you, or anything.” He raised his hands slightly in his defense. “But I think that’s just astonishing.”

“Yes, facing my experiences is a part of my job- and my life,” Daisy said.

John wrapped his fingers around the edge of the cushion on the arm rest of the sofa. He had a feeling he knew what she wanted to talk about. “That’s good. I mean, that you’ve been able to manage.”

“John,” she said solemnly. So she knew that he knew. “Your previous therapist, Ella- that was her name, diagnosed you with PTSD.”

“Yes, she did,” John acknowledged.

“And, as I understand it, you were quite haunted by your memories from the war, and you still are, to a much lesser degree.” Daisy looked up from her notebook at him.

“Yes, and I probably always will be.” John cleared his throat. “It’s like you said- with the car accident. I’ll have to face it, but I’ll be able to manage. Sherlock’s always been good about playing his violin whenever I have a nightmare, and now that we’re spending more time together, especially at night, I’ll have someone with me who can handle one of my rare flashbacks.”

“I’m glad that you have that support system, John,” Daisy replied. “But I think that we might want to address some of the problems that your experiences in the war might still be causing you, and perhaps some of the experiences that you’ve had since you’ve returned to London that might be contributing to your condition. There’s still one of those that we have left to address.”

John removed his fingers from the arm rest and loosely wrapped his arms around himself. He certainly could see where this conversation was heading. After a moment of pregnant silence, John spoke. “Alright.”

“Good. So John, do you mind if I talk with you about the war?”

“No. No, we can talk about it.”

“So, what was your purpose in the war?”

“I was an army doctor.”

“An army doctor? I bet you saw a lot of gruesome things, then?”

“Yes, I did.”

“A lot of people dying?”

“Yes. There was.”

“I bet you saved a lot of people over there. I bet a lot of men owe you their lives?”

“Yes. Thankfully I was able to save them.”

“But… I bet there were some whom you couldn’t save.”

John swallowed. “Yes.” His voice was much quieter now.

“Do you ever… hold yourself accountable for their deaths?”

John nodded. “I have nightmares about them sometimes.”

Daisy stayed quiet, beckoning him to take the floor.

“I think about them the most,” John continued. “All the men that I couldn’t get to in time, or were too injured for anything to be done, or who died in the medical camp before they could be pulled out of that piss pot. One guy who, well, we were close friends. We were both really into classic rock and we started talking about it and we really hit it off. I wasn’t as close to him as I was to my, well, I’ll just address him as Major Sholto. But we were still close. I watched…” John trailed off.

“It’s alright,” Daisy said quietly.

“I watched as he died. He took two shots to the chest covering for someone else. I kept putting pressure on his wounds because we were about to haul him back to the medical tent, but he didn’t make it. Right there. Right there in front of me.” John felt the sting of tears. “He smiled at me. When he died, he smiled at me. I was shot the following week. But I made it.” He took a deep breath. “Paul. His name was Paul.”

“It must be a heavy burden to carry that memory around on.”

“It is,” John said. “As a part of my therapy, Ella arranged for me to meet up with Paul’s family. His kid was only two years old. I guess she could tell by the way Paul’s girlfriend was acting that something was wrong, even though she was so young. His girlfriend let me have some of his CDs as a token of their appreciation. I’ve- I’ve reconciled with myself with the fact that I did everything that I was supposed to do and that you can’t save everyone but- “He paused, looked up at the ceiling, and then back at Daisy. “Sometimes I can’t help but wonder what becomes of anybody I treat, or their families. Regardless of whether it was during the war or when I’m pulling a shift at the surgery. I mean, you, as medical professional yourself, must understand that.”

Daisy nodded. “I do,” she said softly. She had set her notebook aside and was now focusing on listening to everything that John said, her elbow propped up on her knee and her knuckles resting beneath her chin.

“I listen to his CDs sometimes.” John sniffled. “Reminds me of him and everyone else I had to treat. I was lucky enough to help my friend Sholto by recommending my previous therapist when he came to my wedding.”

“What was your relationship with Major Sholto?” Daisy asked.

John smiled sadly. “Well, heh, we met in private a lot, and uh, we made out a lot, but we weren’t anything official. I mean, we could have been, but, nonetheless. Everybody knew about us, or at least had a hunch as to what we were, but they never said anything or did anything about it. They let us alone. But, me and James were… compatible. Yeah. We were compatible.”

“Was he your first relationship with another man, even if it wasn’t anything official, as you say?”

“Yes. He was the first one. And, you’ve probably heard about how he’s doing now.”

“Do you two still keep in touch?”

“Yes, we do. Sometimes we talk about what’s going on in our lives. Sometimes we talk about the war. Sometimes we just goof around. It’s good to be able to talk to someone who you were so close to and who you share similar experiences with. I talked to him about Sherlock once, you know.”

“And what did he say?”

John hung his head slightly and smiled. “He told me to stop waiting.”

Daisy smiled softly herself.

“I had a dream about the war a month ago,” John said. “I woke up with a start, and Sherlock came into the room and asked if I was alright. I got him to leave, and after he left, I couldn’t go back to sleep. So I walked over to my dresser and pulled out a small bottle that had some vodka left in it. It put me right off to sleep.”

“What was the dream about?”

“I was in the war zone again, and a soldier fell down in front of me, wounded. I ran over to him to try to help, but when I turned him over to examine him, his face was my own.” He licked his lips. “That’s what sort of put this whole thing into motion.” He laughed. “Bet you could probably interpret it for me.”

Daisy smiled. “Dream symbolism wasn’t a unit I did well on in school. The science of dreams, yes. But not symbolism. Not really into the whole psychosexual treatment plan.”

John smirked. “Right.”

“Would you like a moment, John?”

He wiped his cheeks, which had been thoroughly wet from tears that he had subconsciously allowed to fall. “That would be great, thank you.”

~

Daisy gave John a few moments to collect his thoughts before returning to the sitting room with another tea pot filled to the brim with that citrus tea that Sherlock had hinted was John’s favorite.

“Mind if I fill your mug?” she asked.

“Go ahead.” John said. “Thank you.”

“So.” She set the tea pot down on the coffee table that had been moved between her chair and the sofa. “Are you ready to continue?”

John nodded. “I think I can keep going.”

“Okay, then. You’re doing very well so far. Perhaps it would be best if we moved away from talk of the war for right now and moved on to something a bit deeper?”

“What do you want me to talk about?” John asked, a little too sharply.

“Well, I don’t want you to feel like you have to talk about it in order to- “

“But I do have to talk about it. Especially since I know what you’re about to ask of me.”

“Really? Then what am I about to ask you?”

“You want me to talk about my family. The one that I had before.” John knew this was coming.

“Well, yes. That’s exactly what I wanted to move on to. You are right.”

“And now I have to talk about it because we’ve both acknowledged that that is what we have to talk about next.”

“I have other things that we can do besides- “

“Besides what? Do you think that I’m uncomfortable talking about my dead wife and kid?”

“John, I know it’s hard for you, but there is no reason to be so cross with me. We both know you’re going to have to address your wife and child eventually, and I thought today might be a good day to do so, since you’ve already addressed many other issues. You were calm and open when we talked about the war, and now you’re shielding yourself.”

“I’m not uncomfortable talking about them. They don’t even affect me that much anymore.”

“Then there should be no problem with you and I having a conversation about them.”

“Fine.” John crossed his arms. “What do you want to ask me?”

“I just want to know how you’re handling their deaths. How you’ve coped in the past. How you’re coping now.”

“Just fine.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“What are you doing to help yourself?”

John didn’t say anything at first. “I’ve moved on.”

“How?”

“I moved back here. Got my old job back. I resumed the life I had before they were in it.”

“Was an alcohol addiction a part of your life before they were in it?”

“Hey! Don’t bring that into this.”

“It wasn’t, was it?”

John huffed and shook his head. “No. I had bouts were I would drink more than normal if I was upset over something, but it never- “John made a dismissive motion with his hands- “got to that point. You know that.”

Daisy nodded. “Do you ever have dreams about them, like you do about the war?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Almost as often as I dream about the war.”

“What happens in these dreams?”

“In many of them, I’ll find myself in the hospital. Mary’s in her bed crying, and the baby’s already dead.”

“Do you ever find yourself in a dream when the baby is alive? Do you find yourself interacting with it before it died?”

John shook his head. “I haven’t, yet. Of course, I haven’t really been dreaming at all this past month. When I’m asleep, at least.”

“What happened at the hospital? On the night that it really happened?”

John shifted in his seat. “Mary went into labor, and I took her to the hospital. Everything had been going great in her pregnancy, but the baby was in distress, and they gave her an emergency caesarian section.”

“And then what happened?”

“The baby stopped breathing.”

“And why did it stop breathing?”

“Why the hell do you need to know all of this?”

“I already know all of this from the file of information that Mycroft supplied me with. I’m just trying to get you to talk about it. If you don’t want to, we can do something else for right now.”

“No! I want to talk about it. Just- just let me talk about it.” John sighed. “I have to.”

“…Alright.”

“The baby had an undetected birth defect. Of course, that could have happened due to Mary’s actions later on during her pregnancy, but I’m not going to talk about what all she tried to pull right now. She just wasn’t as sedative or as careful as she could have been, especially given who she used to be. The baby stopped breathing, and they hooked her up to life support machines before putting her in one of the cribs in the maternity ward. They told us that, since Mary and I both had had the child much later in our lives than what was recommended, the risk for birth defects increased… I knew the real reasons why, though. You cannot expect to live the life of an ex-assassin, still maneuvering your way into systems both physical and digital, without attracting any sort of harm to yourself. And then again, we were older.”

John pressed his lips together into a thin line and looked out the window before looking back at Daisy. “I got to touch her. I got to hold her. Only once. And at that- “John paused. “And at that moment I didn’t care whether or not it was really my kid or someone that she had relations with before me’s kid. She was really pretty. Gorgeous. Never was there a baby that was prettier. You should have seen her. I keep the only pictures that I have of her locked away.”

“I bet she was very beautiful, John.”

“Oh, she was. About a few hours after she was born, her heart stopped and they couldn’t revive her. Mary was crying and asked if I would at least remember her as my wife instead of an assassin. Mary was so hurt by what had happened. I told her that I would. It’s funny how I said that, since I only remember her by all of the shit that she pulled. I told her it wasn’t her fault, even though she certainly did nothing to lessen the risks. She died a few moments afterward. We had actually planned for her death, Mycroft and I, since she was now considered a public enemy in the eyes MI-6. The birth defect was… unexpected.”

“What was wrong with her? The baby?”

“Deformed organs,” John said, biting his lips. “They discovered that during the autopsy. Her heart nor her lungs could work properly on their own. They knew there was something wrong with her when she was alive, but, they had only just started running tests before she died. At that point it was easier just to let the autopsy decide it. I felt so worthless when she died. Here I was, a man that ad saved so many during the war, and I couldn’t even help my own newborn daughter. I cried over her for weeks. I didn’t go to the grief counselor they wanted me to go to. I felt too ashamed to sit and talk about it. Like I did when I about the war when I first went to see Ella.”

“What did you name her?”

“You already know that.”

“I want to see if you can say it.”

“…Clarisse. I will never forget it. I bought white, wooden letters that spelled out her name and hung them on the wall in what was going to be her nursery.” John wiped his cheeks. “I painted the entire nursery pink, by the way. I even got some small paint brushes and painted intricate, little butterflies on the wall too. All of the furniture was made of white wood as well. The floor was covered in toys, since they toy chest I got couldn’t hold all of the toys that Sherlock took it upon himself to get.” John chuckled to himself, which led to some of his sobs escaping his throat. “He must have bought one of every baby toy that he could find in this neighborhood.”

“That must have looked amazing.”

John nodded. “It was. She would have loved it.” And John broke into tears, gradually growing louder and louder and clutching the cushions on the sofa.

“I bet she would have,” Daisy replied softly. “I think this might be a good place to stop.”

“Please,” John whimpered.

“You did very well, John,” Daisy said. “You’re doing very well.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to have Sherlock come up here. Is that alright? Would you like to see him?”

“No,” John replied, sniffling. “I can handle this on my own. I just need a moment to calm down.” John sniffled, sobbing a few more times. “Damn. All I’m doing today is crying.”

Daisy smiled a sad smile before collecting her pen and notebook. “Crying can be a very healthy thing. I pushed you today, John, and you responded like someone who I feel is almost ready to be moved on to weekly appointments.”

John licked his lips and nodded, growing a bit more composed the more he realized what all he had actually relinquished himself of in those sessions. “Thank you.”

“I’ll perhaps have one more session with you tomorrow, and then we can see about releasing you from my constant supervision, yeah?”

“Alright,” John replied.

Daisy went over to the door that led to the staircase, opened it, and promptly called Sherlock back up into the flat now that the session was over and John was beginning to assume a composed state.

…

“Are you alright?”

John chuckled. “Everyone seems to be asking me that nowadays.”

Sherlock lowered his fork down upon his plate. Daisy had not joined them for dinner, and she was upstairs in John’s old room, likely packing her things. “I’m serious. You’ve been distant ever since your recent counseling session ended.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might just be relieved?” John asked. “That I might just be alright? That I might just be thinking about things?”

“…So you are well? Nothing is bothering you?” Sherlock asked back.

“Oh my g- “John sighed, a bit annoyed.

Sherlock smiled, his chin multiplying into almost five other chins as he dipped his head suppressing a giggle. “I love doing that.”

“I know you do,” John replied, almost giggling himself.

A few brief moments passed before Sherlock spoke again.

“I’ve got you back again.”

John looked up at his partner while he continued to speak.

“You’re slowly becoming the man that I once knew. I can see it in everything that you do.”

John finally replied to him after not knowing what to say for several additional moments: “I’ve got myself back again as well.”

Sherlock reached his hand out across the table and took John’s in his own. “I know. It makes me a bit relieved myself, my dear John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go!


	23. When Our Story Concludes (Epilogue-ish)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END IS NIGH!!! Heheh.  
> Thank you all so much for sticking with this story and providing all of your support and your criticism. I can't express my gratitude enough. This wasn't exactly the end that I had originally planned, but I thought, "It's still really cute, and it closes the story off in a good place." So, here you go, my friend.  
> One last time, my apologies for any mistake.  
> I do not own BBC Sherlock.  
> I hope you enjoy this as much as you have enjoyed the rest of this story. Thank you sticking with it despite all of my highs and lows in my writing. (I'm working on it! I've got lots to work on, but I'm actually going to work on it!)  
> -WeWillForeverBeYoung

**Part I**

The front door of 221 was wide open, providing all of those who were standing in the foyer of the small apartment building to see one of the Mycroft-issued black cars sitting at the curb. Daisy emerged at the top of the stairs with her suitcase, a pleased smile plastered on her face. Daisy, having re-evaluated John’s mental state and deeming the entire situation much safer than it once was, was finally leaving her patient and Sherlock to themselves.

“I must say,” Daisy said as she reached the foot of the stairs. “This was probably one of the most unique cases I’ve ever had to take. Not that that’s a bad thing, of course.”

Daisy took Mrs. Hudson’s outstretched hand and shook it.

“You’ve been a real blessing around here, dearie,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’m going to miss having an extra mouth to eat my cooking. I always make too much.”

“And I’ll miss eating your lovely cooking, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for accommodating me.”

Daisy moved on to Sherlock and promptly shook his hand as well.

“Thank you for your services, Daisy,” Sherlock said.

“It was my pleasure,” Daisy replied. “I’m glad to be of help.”

At last, Daisy moved on to John, who was standing next to Sherlock in his favorite oatmeal jumper.

“John,” Daisy said.

John extended his hand, and Daisy took it. “So, next Thursday at one?”

“Yes,” Daisy replied. “You should arrive earlier, though. Sometimes patients get called back earlier if they arrive earlier than their appointment time. Or so Erin has told me based on her observations.”

John laughed. “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Daisy’s grip on her suitcase tightened. “Call me if you need anything,” she announced, before waving and crossing the threshold of the front door and heading towards the black car.

Sherlock, after watching her intently out of some carefully hidden gratefulness, promptly closed the front door.

**Part II (The Following Evening)**

“Sun’s out,” John announced, holding his red mug in his hand while staring out the kitchen window. “Such a beautiful evening. Looks like it’s going to be like this all week. The weatherman said so.”

“Meteorologists still play a guessing game, even with all of their so-called scientific instruments,” Sherlock said, folding up the newspaper he was reading. “A meteorologist can lie every time he goes on air, and the people will still abide by everything he says, simply because some of the meteorologists can get it right on a somewhat consistent basis.”

“Easy for you to say,” John replied. “You wear the same coat year ‘round.”

“And I prepared for anything the weather might throw my way,” Sherlock promptly answered.

“Ah, right. Except extreme heat.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response, not willing to admit that he burned up in his coat during the heat.

…

“Do you want to go for a stroll? Together?”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere. Are you up to it?”

Sherlock set the folded newspaper down next to his microscope. “Are you serious?”

“Look at my face, Sherlock. Bloody deduce it.”

Sherlock starred at him for a moment. “If you want to.”

…

“We never do this.” John took in a deep breath of the fresh air, which was also contaminated with the smells and germs of the city. _Ah, London._ “We go outside all of the time, but we’re always running after criminals. We only ever enjoy the city sitting in the back of a cab, or proceeding to the tube. We never just… stroll through it.”

Sherlock hummed in response.

“And look at the neighborhood we live in.” John lazily gestured at the buildings around him. “Central London. Beautiful, yeah?”

“John, I suggest you keep your unpoetic attempts at describing things on your blog and that you not disrupt what could be a marvelous stroll with your simple attempts at admiring beauty.”

John laughed and punched him the shoulder, causing him to laugh also.

“I’m kidding!” Sherlock exclaimed after John repeated the action a few more times, each delivering a little more force upon impact.

“You’d better be,” John said, returning his focus to the world around. “Looks like everyone else is out enjoying the sunshine as well.”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Sherlock said.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Maybe there’s a mutant clown serial killer on the loose who goes into multiple flats at night and kills everyone inside. And now London’s population is steadily decreasing because of that guy. I don’t know.”

Sherlock stares off into space. “Mutant clown serial killer…”

“Oh my god,” John breathed.

“Well, if Lestrade presented such a case to me, I wouldn’t turn it down,” Sherlock said. “It’s a seven, as it currently stands.”

They walked for a few moments in silence, with Sherlock trying not to giggle at John, who was beginning to tense up at the antics that Sherlock was beginning to engage in.

“I’d really be lost without you, John,” Sherlock finally said. “I don’t know what I would do. You’re the only one who can stand me and can understand me as well. I’m glad that we were able to catch you before you fell too far. I personally know how hard it can be to get back up when you hit your personal bottom.”

“…Thank you, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome. If you were gone, who else could I possibly get to drag along to all of my cases to say utterly stupid things that spur my great thoughts?”

John drew in a sharp breath, and Sherlock burst out into laughter.

“Ah, it’s so easy for me to annoy you, John. Your eyes- _your eyes_ grew ten times as big when I said that. Oh, you should have seen them.”

“Well, heh, in my defense, you do tend to annoy a lot of people very easily.”

“What do you say, John? Would you be opposed to me finding a case- a simple one, most likely, since nothing remotely interesting has been turning up recently- and having you come along again? Be Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson again, even though things have changed?”

John smiled. “I think that would wonderful.”

“Good. I was starting to miss pointing out all of your misconstrued descriptions of our adventures on your abysmal blog. Perhaps, if we start going taking cases together again, you’ll start updating it again.”

“It is not abysmal!”

“No, John, it isn’t.”

“…You really think so?”

“Of course I do. I like the favorable light that you shine upon me and our adventures. I generally think your posts are very good.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Sherlock paused. “Well, for someone who has never written anything extensive- “

John punched him in the arm again.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said. “I appear to be in a teasing sort of mood.”

“I can clearly see that.”

John and Sherlock both sniffed the air, having suddenly noticed the pleasant aroma that was wafting down the street from one of the nearby cafes.

“Oh, that smells good.”

“Perhaps we should eat something while we are out, John? I’m admittedly feeling unusually famished.”

“We just ate not too long ago, Sherlock.”

“Well, I’m trying to be romantic. Isn’t that what people do? They take each other out to go eat places?”

John smiled to himself. “Yes, they do. And I would be glad if you took me out to eat tonight. I could eat.”

“I’ll be watching you.”

“Sherlock, I’d be heartbroken if you weren’t beginning to look after me as much as I do for you.”

“I’m trying to be better at that.”

“I’m trying to be better at taking care of myself too.”

John reached out and put his hand on the middle of Sherlock’s back. “Shall we?”

Sherlock turned to him and smiled. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'll write more Sherlock stories. I'm thinking about doing a Pixar and Sherlock crossover. Maybe with Finding Nemo! Finding Dory has just gotten me worked up about Pixar. No! No! And AU. I meant AU. There.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all of a good day! Or night!
> 
> ...Of a good day. Really. Have a good day or night. Please have a good day or night. Ugh. I'm so terrible. Dammit.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it and are interested in reading more, please leave a comment, a kudo, or a bookmark. If you have any suggestions or constructive criticism, please feel free to leave a comment letting me know what it is.  
> This story was not beta'd or Brit-picked. Just so you know.  
> Thank you. And have a lovely day.


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